


The Road Rhythm Outro

by brokenlittleboy



Series: Outro 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Brain Damage, Case Fic, Curtain Fic, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Guilty Dean, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Permanent Injury, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-15 02:31:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5767879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after season three. A routine hunt goes horribly wrong when Dean decides to engineer their plan in a way that will get Sam to deliver the killing shot. After Sam confesses that he wants them to leave the life, Dean is convinced that by letting Sam be hero and save the day, Sam will change his mind. But he doesn't account for a break in a balcony railing and one completely broken little brother. Things go beyond their control and the two of them must settle down in a quiet town in Michigan, but Dean's harboring guilt and Sam is so, so, so lost, and he doesn't understand why Dean avoids him or why their road life has fizzled away. A curtain fic dealing with permanent injury, angst, and various types of trauma, and fluffy domesticity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I. One year ago

**Author's Note:**

> This is just the first fic in hopefully a long series of them. I really want it to become a fully-fledged verse. I want Sam and Dean to work out all of their issues and really settle into the lives I've given them in this fic. Hopefully I'll be able to do that!
> 
> The lovely Siriala did all the art for this project. Her art pieces inspired the fic. She was amazingly kind and patient with me. Even when I made an idiot mistake and couldn't figure out how to properly link to her amazing pieces of art :) Said art can be found here: http://artsiriala.livejournal.com/30696.html and here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5767072 Please leave her some kudos and comments for all of her hard work!!!

Dean let out a slow exhale, leaning back in the chair and throwing his feet up on Sam's bed, nudging Sam's ankle with the side of his boot. "So," he said, setting his coffee down on the tiny side table, "I've had the place for three weeks now, y'know, and I was thinking, without your sasquatch body in it, it-it's just way too empty, Sammy. So, uh, I'm gonna take a job working somewhere on the same block. Means I can pay for all your crappy medical bills." He nudged Sam again, grinning over at him. "Any ideas, Sammy? I need something that'll make this place less mind-numbing. Turns out staying in one place is really boring."

 

Dean paused, sending a glance over at Sam's calm features. He felt his throat fill up, the taste of bile creeping up the back of his mouth. He swung his legs off of the bed, standing up and clearing his throat. "Well," he said, voice tight and weak, squeezing Sam on the shoulder, "if you ever get any ideas, just call me up, 'kay? I'll rush right over. Anyway, I, uh, I gotta go clear my head. See you 'round, Sammy."

 

Dean didn't look back as he left the room. The silence was fucking with his head, the slow click of the breathing apparatus keeping Sam alive causing his muscles to twitch.

 

Outside, he ran a hand through his hair, glaring at anything and anyone scattered about the hospice care facility's parking lot. No one had an answer for him. No one had any good news, and for that reason, Dean hated them all. He hated the nurse that he'd staunchly avoided learning the name of, 'cause they wouldn't be here much longer anyway. He hated the guy down in the coffee shop who gave him a sappy smile, as if he had any fucking idea what Dean was going through. He hated the ladies walking their dogs and chatting, hated the man in the apartment hallway who greeted him like he knew him every time he came back from visiting Sam.

 

Most of all, though, he hated the person inside him, the little, nagging voice of self-righteousness that had gotten Sam into this mess, that had forced a bunch of inexperienced small town doctors to play Humpty Dumpty with what was left of Sam's skull. He was the real reason he was alone. He had himself to thank, and he would carry that with him for the rest of his life.

 

For now, though, all he had to do was figure out something he wouldn't mind doing for a couple of weeks while Sam got better. Something that wouldn't drive him insane with monotony. An idea creeped up on him, and, not wanting to spend any more time wallowing in his own misery, he jumped on it, sliding into the Impala with the wheel smooth and familiar under his hand and a plan forming in his head.


	2. II.  Ten months ago (two months later)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets big news while settling in at his new job.

Dean's tongue stuck out of his mouth, his teeth lightly biting down on it as he narrowed his eyes, pausing in his work to wipe away blood with a washcloth. "Just five minutes to finish the outline, then you're done for the day," he told Anna, and she nodded, her blonde hair rustling and falling across her back. Dean picked the gun back up, the dull buzz it emitted helping to center his thoughts. He pressed the tip against her skin, making a thin line of black to complete the tip of the Sparrow's beak on her shoulder blade.

 

A bead of sweat went cascading down his temple, but he ignored it, instead focusing on the spotlit canvas of skin before him, where about ninety-nine percent of the outline of a bird in flight burned red against pale flesh.

 

A couple of minutes later, he finished, handing Anna the ointment she'd need and tossing her a thin smile. "By this point, I'm sure you know the drill?"

 

She laughed, rolling her eyes at him. "Dean, Roy's my husband. I got ten different tattoos under my belt already, some literally." She patted him on the arm. "I think I'm good. And thanks, you're actually getting pretty good at this stuff."

 

Dean shook his head. "The two of you have been saying that every day since I walked in."

 

"Still!" she called as she headed out the door, her drawl thick and sweet, "just got your license, first legit tattoo on the job... there might be hope for you yet, Dean."

 

She was gone before he could call out anything else. He set down the tattoo machine on the table, flicking it off and peeling off his gloves. Roy came out from the back room, Dean's phone in hand. "Got a call for you," he said, the phone chirping and lighting up to prove his point as he finished talking.

 

Dean hopped off the stool. "Thanks," he said, taking the phone. Roy brushed past him, and Dean watched Roy meet Anna in front of their beaten-up Pontiac through the front window. He put the phone up to his ear and answered it. "Yeah?"

 

"Dean, it's Doctor Stevens," a familiar, musical voice said. "I think you'll be pleased to know that Sam here has opened his eyes."

 

Whatever else she said faded out into the background and Dean froze, his heartbeat speeding up in record time. He muttered something to her that he couldn't remember even a second later and ended the call, snagging his coat and keys and stumbling out the door, barely taking the time to lock it behind him. He was on the road in less than a minute, and way over the speed limit in two. The hospital was a fifteen minute drive and he made it in eight, pushing through the doors only to be stopped by the staff. He paced back and forth in the waiting room for thirty minutes before they finally let him see Sam.

 

"He's been unconscious for a very long time," Dr. Stevens said, and Dean wanted to drag her out of his way so he could get to Sam, but he forced himself to pause and look her in the eye with as little malice as he could manage. "Like I warned you when you brought him in, it's unlikely he will retain full use of his brain or his right leg. We won't know his mental state until we do a few more tests. He's unresponsive right now, but that's completely normal. Waking up from things like this is a very slow process."

 

She stepped aside, and Dean met Sam's eyes, which didn't flicker with a single hint of recognition, the gaunt pallor of his face so much more profound without the intubation machine thing strapped over the lower half of his face. Sam blinked slowly, his gaze dull and lethargic. There was nothing on his face. Dean couldn't think of any other way to describe it. No expression, no thought, no Sam. Sam turned his face away from Dean at the speed of an elderly tortoise, staring up at Dr. Stevens. He blinked again.

 

"Excuse me," Dean coughed, shuffling past Dr. Stevens to get out into the hallway. The nearest bathroom was right around the corner, which was convenient as the contents of his stomach didn't wait for even a moment before he was spitting them into a toilet bowl.

 

He shifted until the tiled floor didn't hurt his knees quite so much. He stared at the wall above the toilet, eyes unfocused and unseeing. All he could picture was his baby brother back in that room, blinking and breathing but dead, oh god, he was so _dead._ There was nothing there. And there might never be again.

 

The realization hit him like a heavy stone in the stomach, and he let out one hoarse sob before letting his forehead fall against the cool porcelain, squeezing his eyes shut. His body trembled and he didn't have the energy to yell at himself, to pull himself together, much less stand up and paint a smile on his face. Most of all, though, he knew he couldn't go back into that room. He couldn't look. He couldn't bear it.

 

People came and left the restroom as he sat there, staring down a pile of his own mess, his head and heart throbbing in painful time with each other. His feet were both asleep under his weight and a strange calm slowly spread over him, as if the numb from his toes had washed over his mind. He remembered feeling like this as the hellhounds came and the clock chimed twelve, Sam's desperate screams echoing in his ears before there was nothing anymore.

 

He stood up, flushed the toilet, washed his hands, gargled some water, and left. He turned back toward Sam's room and almost ran right into Dr. Stevens, whose eyes lit up when she saw him. "Mr. Lowell," she greeted, nodding at him and clutching a clipboard close to her chest. "I just need your permission to give Sam a few more tests so he can-"

 

"Just do 'em," Dean butted in, his voice sharp and rough even to his own ears. He swallowed back the grimy taste still lingering in his mouth. "I don't care, just do all of it. Go crazy."

 

He pushed past her to say his goodbyes, wondering what kind of care a functional shell of a little brother would need, and how much it'd cost. How often he would have to visit so the doctors wouldn't judge him. His hand was on the door handle when Dr. Stevens cleared her throat.

 

"He's going to be fine, you know," she told him, her lips twitching into a faint dusting of a smile, "he may not be the same, but he's going to be fine."

 

Dean gave her a jerky nod, his fingers flexing on the handle, and she nodded back, disappearing quietly down the hall. The susurrus of beeps and activity echoed down the hall and kept Dean company as he re-gathered up his courage, sweeping shards and pieces up into his arms and into his chest. Nodding again to himself, letting Dr. Steven's confident tone bounce around his head, he opened the door and tossed a lazy, cheeky smile at Sam, who blinked back up at him.

 

Sam's eyes tracked him across the room, making the hairs stand up on the back of Dean's neck. He went to sit in his chair, feeling like an actor in an awkward stage play. He fell back into the chair, clapping his hands once before folding them in his lap. Sam regarded them for a moment before turning his glazed eyes back to Dean's. A nurse came and went but Sam didn't give her the time of day. Dean shrugged out of his jacket.

 

"Heya, Sammy, how you doin'?"


	3. III. Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam realizes how much Dean's absence has been affecting him.

Sam pulls his crutches out of the car. Dean drives off before he's even shut the door all the way, and Sam sighs, slipping his forearms into the loops and levering himself forward, careful to put as little weight on his right leg as possible, which sticks out straight and awkward.

 

The moment the sliding glass doors whoosh open, Sophie nods at him and begins typing away, eyes glued to her computer screen. Sam makes his way over to the little sitting area, spinning and falling into the chair, letting his legs skid out before him. He slips his arms out of the crutches and leans them against the empty chair next to him.

 

He eyes the haphazard pile of magazines on the table before him, but decides against it. Too much effort. He looks over at Sophie, who smiles back and gives a little wave. He waves back and she resumes her work.

 

Sam has always liked Sophie. She always treats him kindly, and always has, from the day he came in in a wheelchair and could barely speak to now. She never treats him differently, never looks at him like he's an idiot or a failure. She's one of the only people in Sam's life who makes him feel like he's still a person, still sane, still trying.

 

He leans back against the cushions and stares up at the TV mounted in the corner. Animal Planet is playing silently, and a bunch of kittens are running amok and trampling over the cameraperson. He watches aimlessly for awhile, ignoring the dull pain rising in his leg. He wonders what Dean is doing right now. Last time Dean was home, he'd had a bandage on his back. He'd shown Sam a new tattoo that Roy was doing on him, something Dean had drawn himself. It was a large profile-view of a skull, all across his back. Above it was written "to hell and back," and when Sam had gotten choked up and reached out to touch it, Dean had pulled back and disappeared into his room, muttering something about being tougher from his experiences.

 

Sam had let him go, thinking only of where Dean had been because of him, of how haunted and shaken he'd looked when he came back. He hadn’t even gotten to touch him. He hadn’t touched Dean in so long. His soul misses it, and if it could speak, he knows it would whine like a sad dog. It had been so strange to be fine one moment, sitting in a kitschy motel room and quietly loving Dean from afar, only to wake up in a hospital with a silent ghost of a brother by his side, a detached stranger whom he saw so rarely. He misses Dean more than he could articulate.

 

"Sam," Dr. Walton says, stirring Sam from his thoughts. He looks up to see her standing there, her lips twitching up in a lopsided grin. He can't help but smile back, gathering up his crutches and hauling himself upright. He lopes over to her and shakes her hand.

 

"Hi, Dr. Walton," he greets her.

 

"So, Sam, you ready for our session today?" she asks, leading him down the hall. "It's been a few days since I've seen you last, hasn't it?"

 

Sam hurries to catch up with her, the edges of his crutches digging into the skin near his elbow. "S-six days," he supplies, trying to hide how labored his breathing has become.

 

She holds the door open for him, and he bobs his head in thanks as he enters her office. He makes a beeline for the disgustingly comfy chair pushed in front of her desk, forgoing all grace and careful movements as he collapses into it, sinking back into the squishy leather seating.

 

She slips behind her desk and sits, shuffling papers and pulling out a little notepad. She frowns at him from over the rim of her glasses. "Have you been keeping up with your physical therapy, Sam?"

 

"Yeah," he says, his indignancy at her implication lost with his breath. He flushes, looking down at his lap. "It's just hard."

 

"That simply means you're making progress," she tells him lightly, but Sam can hear the sternness behind her tone, the disapproval. "You're attending every appointment with Dr. Simmons, right?"

 

He nods his head. "Yeah, Jefferey’s nice. B-but they're only once every two weeks now."

 

She scribbles something down, and Sam tries to peer at her note, but her handwriting is completely illegible to him. "You've been keeping to your regimen at home, as well?"

 

Sam stays quiet, letting his silence speak for him. He avoids her gaze.

 

He hears her chair creak as she shifts. "Sam, I know that it's hard on your brother to see you struggle, but this is your health at risk. And it will help him adjust to things to see you regaining muscle mass."

 

Sam pushes a lock of hair behind his ear and looks back up at her, meeting her gaze evenly. He fills with resentment at how easily she can read his insecurities across his face, like he’s some sort of flimsy open book. He melts at the concern he finds on her face. He knows she's only trying to help, and that she genuinely cares about him. She doesn't see him as just a case or a paycheck, like some other people who have helped him had, and he appreciates that more than he can say.

 

"I just don't like w-watching how his face just shuts d-d-down," Sam mumbles, toying with his hands. "I want him to be happy."

 

"I don't think hiding your disabilities from him is going to make him that happy," she tells him kindly, opening a drawer at her side and pulling out a bowl of chocolates. She takes a few and then slides the bowl across the desk. He unwraps one and pops in his mouth, mumbling his thanks as he slides the bowl back.

 

She puts three in her mouth at once, bunching up the wrappers into one mass and shooting them over Sam's head and into the trashcan behind him. He smiles, relaxing further into the chair.

 

"So, about Dean," she says, switching tracks, her tone meaning business. "It's been a few months. I want you to tell me with complete honesty, Sam. Do you think he is coping any better with his situation?"

 

Sam swallows. "No," he whispers after a pause, blinking moisture away from his eyes. "No, he still hates me."

 

"Sam," Dr. Walton reprimands, "he does not hate you. He cares very dearly for you. Why do you think he is having such a hard time with things? And I'll give you a hint--it is because he worries so much about you."

 

"I don't know," he sighs. "I see less and less of him. He s-says it's because he has to work, pay bills, but I feel like he's avoiding me. I--I want him back."

 

Dr. Walton gestures vaguely at him. "Go on," she urges.

 

"I think he avoids me because he doesn't like seeing me all messed up," Sam finishes, shifting uncomfortably. "He thinks I'm not the same Sam."

 

She takes her glasses off and straightens up, meeting his eyes with a concentration that's sort of nerve-wracking to Sam. "And are you?"

 

"I-I-I don't know," Sam fumbles, his brows furrowing together, his eyes scrunching up. "I mean, I got hurt, but am I diff--different? I'm still me."

 

"Do you think Dean sees it that way?"

 

"Stop asking me!" Sam bursts, standing up and teetering dangerously on his bad leg. "Stop asking me what I think! _I don't know what to think!_ I want you to tell me!"

 

"Sam, please sit down," Dr. Walton says, not a single waver or raised note in her voice. "You're putting strain on your leg."

 

Sam wants to riot and protest like a teenager, like a misbehaving child, but his leg aches like it's been frozen for a thousand years, and well, he really is only hurting himself.

 

Trying not to jut out his lip and roll his eyes, his levers himself back down, clasping his hands very carefully in his lap. "I just want you to tell me what you think," Sam says when he doesn't see as much red anymore, carefully pronouncing each word. "I want your help, your advice."

 

"I know," Dr. Walton replies, "but I can't fight your battles for you. My main goal is to help you see things more clearly so you can decide for yourself. But I will tell you what I think."

 

Sam straightens up.

 

"I think something else about the whole situation is bothering Dean," she starts, "do you remember anything else about the day of your accident, Sam?"

 

Sam shakes his head, frowning. "No. I only know what he's told me... that I got pushed. That my head split open." Reflexively, he reaches up and traces the bumpy, long scar on the back of his head, shivering. His hair still hasn't grown even close to all the way back yet, and he hates the choppy, moppish look he's sporting.

 

"Even if he is telling the truth, even if it wasn't his fault, I believe he feels guilty about what happened to you," Dr. Walton says.

 

Sam narrows his eyes. "He wouldn't lie to me," he defends icily, "it wasn't his fault."

 

"Even so," she responds, holding her hands up in a placating manner, "you've told me he's always watched out for you, yes? He thinks he's failed. He thinks he didn't watch out for you well enough and you were injured as a result."

 

"I... I did think of that," Sam admits, biting his lip. "But I don't see how he could think that. He didn't ask me to get pushed."

 

Dr. Walton clears her throat. "Well, yes." She opens her mouth to say something more, but shuts it, her eyes going distant. Sam can practically see the cogs turning inside her head. She turns back to him. "Sam, I think you need to have another talk with him about that night. I think both you and Dean would benefit from talking more about it."

 

Sam shifts. "I mean… he did brush me off the first time. I'm just up-upset he's pulling away. Even if he feels guilty, he--he shouldn't do that to me." His voice cracks.

 

Dr. Walton's professional facade is swept away and her eyes soften. She leans forward, reaching across the desk to put her hands on the edge. Sam guesses that she'd hold his hand if she could. "You're right, and you have every reason to be upset," she tells him slowly, "but he's hurting here, too. You two really have to talk or things will never get better."

 

"I know." Sam nods jerkily. "We will."

 

"Good." She smiles. "That's good. I'm proud of you, Sam."

 

They continue talking for several minutes, moving on to lighter topics, practicing tongue twisters, tricks to aid his memory, and ending on promises of working out at home and finding a safe way to get Dean to talk without upsetting him.

 

Sam stands, and she follows suit, reaching out to shake his hand over her desk. "See you next time," Sam says, and she smiles, waving at him as he turns to leave. He gets his arms in his crutches and leaves her office, heading down the hall at a leisurely pace so he can gather his thoughts. He slowly builds his resolve, promising himself that he'll get Dean to talk. He considers himself a professional at that--Dean has always been the gruff one, taking after their father, and Sam is always the one to peel back his walls and get to the real Dean underneath. One stupid fall isn't going to change that. He's still Dean's little brother, and he can still do this. He nods to himself, letting out a breath as he turns the corner. He can see the Impala idling outside the glass sliding doors, and once he's outside the facility, he waves at his brother. Dean does a little hand-flick in return.

 

The car ride home is silent, and Dean turns Aerosmith up high, humming along as they make their way toward the center of town. Their little brick apartment complex comes with a parking garage, thank god, or Sam is sure that Dean would've burst a few veins in his concern for his car.

 

Once inside, Dean tosses his coat on the couch and heads into the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets, bending down and peering behind boxes. "Looks like it's pasta again," Dean says, not looking up, grabbing a box of bowtie pasta from the shelf.

 

"D-Dean," Sam says, cursing himself for stuttering and sounding weak. "Can we talk?"

 

"After dinner," Dean says, putting water in a pot, his jaw ticking. God, Dean doesn’t even look at him anymore. Sam doesn’t know what the fuck happened to the brother he wants so badly, in so many twisted-up ways.

 

Sam sets the crutches down and limps over to him, moving into Dean's space in the small, outdated kitchen. His hand twitches, wanting to reach out and feel Dean, but he keeps it pressed against his side. "No," he says, drawing up all his confidence, "no, you don't talk to me at all anymore. We're doing this now. P-Please."

 

Dean meets his gaze for several beats, and Sam wants to scream and cry. He can't read Dean's expression, he can't get a read on what Dean's feeling. It feels all wrong and backwards but he forces himself to stare back, to not let his face crumple up and twist with grief at the expressionless face of the brother he might’ve lost forever.

 

"We've got fifteen minutes before the pasta's done, and I gotta get the water boiling first," Dean finally says, and Sam smiles.

 

He counts it as progress.


	4. IV. Eight months ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's guilt eats him alive. Sam's not doing well.

Dean watched Sam wake up in increments. He noticed the flutter of an eyelid, the subtle twitch of a finger, and he could tell Sam was really struggling to get control of his atrophied body. The nasal cannula on his face only served to make his angular face look thinner, more drawn.

 

Dean couldn't help but reach forward and run a finger through Sam's short, spiky hair. He was fascinated with it. Sam had been born with a mop on his head, and besides a sloppy accident (prank) with some Nair in a shampoo bottle, he'd always had one. His hair had grown out since they shaved it for surgery, and it was now around Dean's length, making them look more like siblings than ever.

 

It was fucking weird. Dean wanted to go find a hair growth spell or piss off a hair god just to have it all come back. Still, Sam's hair was as soft as ever, and Dean's ministrations were the final step to bring Sam’s eyes from fluttering at half-mast to fully open, and he turned his neck to peer up at Dean, his eyes slowly clearing with each second that passed.

 

Sam's lips quirked up a little. He raised his fingers to wave at Dean, the base of his palm still resting on his bedside. Dean waved back. "You feeling any better?"

 

Sam sucked in a breath. His lips pursed, and his brow went down along with it, tugging his eyebrows together. The puppy look wasn't as complete without Sam's locks, but Dean was impressed that he could still pull it off.

 

Sam opened his mouth. "A... A... lil," he managed, slurring and swallowing back spit. His lips were shiny and he blinked dolefully up at Dean, waiting for him to say something.

 

Dean swallowed. He kept on hoping and hoping that this would get easier, that the guilt would quit eating through his insides like acid, but it never did. Sam used to be able to recite 250 digits of pi from memory. Sam used to have an encyclopedic knowledge of things that went bump in the night, as well as a bachelor's from Stanford.

 

Now, it took him a minute to speak two little words coherently. He was bedridden and infant-weak, and he was so different. He was just so _different._

 

Sam looked away and Dean cursed internally. He'd taken too long to respond, acting all emo and shit, like their roles had been reversed. He coughed into his hand, feeling out of place. "It'll get easier," he said, watching Sam slowly pick at his hospital bracelet, "I know it fucking sucks right now, but it'll get better."

 

"Yeah," Sam whispered, his eyes welling up with tears, his entire face beginning to tremble in slow motion.

 

"I'll leave you alone," Dean said quickly, sliding out of the chair and tripping over his own feet in his haste. He shut the door behind him and fell against the wall, knocking his head back against the plaster and closing his eyes. God, he was such a crap brother. He remembered Sam's raspy, emotional voice from just a few months ago, telling Dean how he still looked up to him, how he was still a hero to Sam. Well, crap chance that was still true. He was awkward and callous, distant when Sam was probably feeling more confused and alone than ever.

 

And he'd just walked out on him when he started crying, shit. He thought it was the right thing to do, even if he kept feeling lower and lower. He was probably the cause of Sam's tears--Sam needed some time from Dean's awful behavior. He'd talk to his physical therapist in around an hour or so, and Jefferey would make Sam feel better. Dean wasn't what he needed right now, as much as he hated to admit it. He deserved it, though, all of it. He had no doubts about that.

 

He curled his hands into tight fists and just barely restrained himself from punching the wall. His emotions were all over the place, his mind a whirlwind of confliction. He never really knew if he was doing the right thing, if he was thinking the right thing. He wasn't the only one paying for it, either; Sam was, too.

 

He blinked back redness and stepped back into the room before he could change his mind and turn tail like the coward he was. Sam looked up at him, his eyes looking how Dean's felt. Dean froze halfway over, noticing the dark shine of Sam's pupils, the hunch of his shoulders.

 

"You feeling better?" he asked after a tense silence, trying to hold back from screaming and throwing his hands in the air, waving the white flag, "do you want me to go?"

 

Sam shook his head roughly, an action that used to make his hair fall into his eyes. Dean also noted that the reaction had been pretty fast, which was a good thing. One of the milestones Jefferey had told them about. He could hear Jefferey's voice in his head, lilting and feminine, telling them that "slow and steady wins the race" before laughing lightly. Jefferey was too positive for Dean's taste, like he had sunshine stuck up his ass, but Sam seemed to get along with him, so Dean wasn't going to complain.

 

"Okay," Dean said, heading over to sit back down. Sam smiled at him.

 

"Thanks for... c-coming back," Sam said, biting his lip. "I d-don't wanna m-m-make you sad."

 

Dean groaned internally, leaning forward and punching Sam in the shoulder to disguise his discomfort. He couldn't get himself to lie and say _you don't_ , so he ended up lounging back in his seat and saying, "don't worry about it, Sammy."

 

They lapsed into another uncomfortable silence, but it didn't seem to phase Sam. He stared off into the distance, his eyes going cloudy, and Dean could see the cogs slowly turning and groaning behind Sam's forehead, working harder and harder as the lines on Sam's forehead grew and grew.

 

Dean watched for awhile before curiosity and frustration mixed inside him like a potent drink. He threw his hands up. "What's on your mind, Sam?" he asked, trying for concerned but sounding overly sarcastic instead. God damn it.

 

Sam jolted and turned to him, eyes widening. "I, um," he licked his lips and swallowed, adam's apple bobbing. "W-we haven't really t-t-t-t..." Sam's lips thinned and he closed his eyes, breathing out slowly. "haven't t-talked since I w-woke up. The d-doctors don't say much. I just want... What happened to me?"

 

His voice sounded so small, so young, and Dean's heart was yearning to crawl out of his chest and go be with Sam’s. Sam's words caught up with him and his mouth went dry. He stared at Sam for a few moments, and Sam stared back, unblinking at first, but his resolve weakened and he ducked his head, blinking down at his lap.

 

"You were pushed," Dean began, his throat rough, "you--you were on a balcony with a broken railing and you were pushed to the concrete floor below. You were so clumsy that you just had to land on your head." Dean smiled, but the humor was lost on Sam. The smile fell easily at Sam's frown.

 

"Were we... hunting?" Sam asked, his eyes scrunching up as he tried to remember.

 

"Yeah." Dean nodded. "Nasty sonofabitch did the pushing, do you remember that?"

 

Sam took a moment to keep searching his mind, but shook his head slowly. His left hand twitched and he curled it into a fist. "No. It--it w-was just b-b-b-bad luck, huh?" he asked, turning to Dean and grin/grimacing.

 

Dean's answering smile felt just as false. He nodded. "Bad luck," he said, wanting the floor to swallow him up, wanting Sam to remember and to hate him and leave him because he deserved it.

 

Jefferey ended up saving him by walking through the door at just the right moment. "Sam!" he called, raising a hand in greeting. Sam moved his fingers again. Jefferey clicked his tongue. "Gonna need a real proper wave, Mr. Lowell," he said, putting his hands on his hips and staring down at Sam with a barely-concealed, disgustingly cheery grin.

 

Sam sighed and lifted up his forearm, his elbow still pressed into the hospital bed. His wrist trembled as he slowly moved his hand back and forth, and Jefferey clapped his hands. "That's fantastic!" he turned to Dean, his smile fading, but not enough for Sam to notice. "Dean?"

 

Dean glared back, raising his hands in defense and standing up. "Yeah, I'm leavin', don't worry,"

 

As he walked away, he heard Sam chuckle.

 

"He's just p-p-protective," Sam stuttered, and Dean ached for the days where that was the truth, for the days where he wasn't running with his shame a heavy weight inside him because he was a guilt-ridden liar and Sam liked his dumb therapist more than his brother.

 

He once again tried to convince himself that he was helping Sam by leaving, but this time, he didn't really believe it for a second. He was grateful for his job, for the nice tips from beautiful girls and guys alike, grateful for the work that distracted his mind. He was grateful for Roy and Anna, even though they were major pains in the ass.

 

Sliding into his car, he headed back to the shop, distancing himself in more ways than one.


	5. V. Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam confronts Dean. Dean opens up and confesses.

Sam can tell that Dean's taking his sweet time with dinner, not because it tastes particularly good or anything, but because he's desperate to stave off their Talk for as long as possible. It's a cheap tactic, and Sam would be pissed at him if he weren't so damn nervous himself.

 

He finishes his pasta before Dean, which is a feat in itself, considering how his fingers still don't like to cooperate and his wrists are weak like a baby's.

 

He takes a few sips of his glass of water, watching Dean eat with what he hopes is a calm, schooled expression. Dean's eyes keep flicking up at him and zapping immediately back down at his food, his cheeks reddening with what Sam assumes is either anger or guilt. Fifty-fifty, really--Sam has trouble reading Dean these days. His brother has closed himself off and shut down pretty effectively ever since Sam came home from the hospital.

 

Home. It's still a strange word to apply to this apartment, to think about. He's been living here for a long time, and Dean even longer, but it still feels wrong. Like some extension of the hospital, some stage where he has to act for his brother before leaving again. It doesn't feel permanent, but doesn't feel temporary, either, just feels fake. Like they've been drawn out of their lives and brought somewhere else. In a way, Sam muses, they have.

 

More than anything, he’s wanted to settle down with Dean all his life. He’s wanted a tiny little apartment and for Dean to have some job he enjoys doing, something that paid the bills, and now he has it, but it’s nothing like any of his fantasies, not at all. The thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

 

Finally, Sam hears the clink of Dean's fork falling against stoneware, and he looks up, seeing Dean's empty plate. Dean grunts some weird caveman nonsense that most likely means "I'll be back," and loads up his dishes to bring to the sink alongside Sam's. He pauses for a moment, then slowly picks up the dishrag from beside the sink, like he knows Sam will call him out for it.

 

So he does. He clears his throat. "D-Dean, c'mon... you can do that later."

 

Dean sighs, his shoulders falling, and he drops everything into the sink. He turns around, leaning casually against the sink, his elbows propped behind him as he rests his fingers on the edge of the counter. He crosses his legs at his ankles. He raises an eyebrow even as his eyes refuse to meet Sam's for more than a microsecond. "Well?" his voice is low, blunt. "I'm listening."

 

Sam reaches up and runs a hand through his hair, the muscles in his arm straining. His fingers bump against the scar on his skull and he drops his arm back into his lap like it's a dead extension of him, hitting the seat of his jeans with an audible thump.

 

Dean's eyes follow the movements with horrified fascination, and he turns his eyes back down when Sam stops moving, his adam's apple bobbing, his bottom lip wobbling alongside it.

 

"You have to do more than listen, you have to t-t-talk. Why do you look so guilty right now?" Sam shifts and straightens up.

 

Dean's head shoots up, and he frowns, taken by surprise, given no time to look angry or shuttered away like he usually does these days. "What?"

 

"You w-watched my arm," Sam spells out for him, "like it was a monster. Then you looked guilty. Why? Do you think this is y-your fault?" Sam pauses, feeling short on breath after getting out so many mostly-coherent syllables at once. A little pang of self-loathing bounces around his head at that fact, but he ignores it. There are more pressing matters at hand right now. Dean still hasn't responded, hasn't even blinked, actually. Sam tries again, leaning forward, his brows scrunching together. "Why?"

 

Dean bites his lip. "Listen, Sammy-"

 

"Nope." Sam stands up, grabs his crutches from the wall behind him without looking and slips his arms into them in one fluid movement. He walks over to the couch, trying to make his steps as even and graceful as possible. He takes time to turn and lower himself into the cushions, dragging the crutches away and onto the floor at his feet. He pats the spot next to him. "Couch, now."

 

To his credit, even looking like he'd rather slow dance with Michael and Lucifer than come over, Dean doesn't hesitate, following in Sam's path and dropping down next to him, the leather squeaking underneath him. Dean stares straight ahead, eyes glued on the black T.V. screen, and Sam thinks maybe he should've forced Dean to sit back down at the table so they'd be face-to-face, forced to talk things out eye-to-eye.

 

Like that had worked out so fantastically over dinner.

 

"So." Sam tugs on Dean's shirtsleeve and Dean shifts to face him, their knees knocking, Dean's double the size of Sam's. "Why."

 

Dean looks up at Sam, his face permanently set into a dull glower. "I don't know what to tell you, Sammy," he croaks, his fingers bouncing restlessly on his knees, ""M'not guilty."

 

Sam rolled his eyes. "Let's just fast-forward to after you've ad-ad-admitted that you are. I know it wasn't your fault." Sam pauses scanning over Dean's features like Dean's a bug under a microscope, which is probably how he feels right now. He sees it--just the slightest hesitation, the tiniest amount of extra pink flooding to Dean’s cheeks. Sam frowns. "You think it's your fault." It's not a question.

 

Dean remains silent.

 

"You feel guilty because you think my accident was y-your f-f-fault." Sam closes his eyes, takes a big breath. "But I fell. Right? I was pushed by a monster?"

 

"Yeah," Dean whispers, and oh my god, he looks like he's going to cry. Sam feels a tight little pain in his chest.

 

"You're not telling me something." Sam matches his volume to Dean's, meets Dean's eyes with an urgency that Dean can't ignore. "D-Dean. Please."

 

"God," Dean chokes out, his head falling into his hands. He turns away from Sam and presses the bases of the palms of his hands into his eyes. "You don't wanna know, Sammy. You don't wanna know any of it."

 

Sam yanks one of Dean's wrists away from his face, and Dean raises his head, his eyes narrowed with a sharp, bright pain. He's not glaring at Sam, but he's definitely not smiling, not happy. His face look like it's been put through the wringer. "Sam, please," he murmurs, his jaw ticking. "I can't--I just don't want you to hate me,"

 

Sam pulls his hand away and freezes. To hear Dean admit that out loud is enough to stop his brain in its tracks for a moment. Sam can read all the broken pieces in Dean's eyes, which are open in a raw, horrible way as they haven't been since Sam woke up. Sam almost wishes he hadn't pushed. Almost.

 

Dean is _scared_. Dean is riddled with guilt so heavy he can't look Sam in the eye. He's afraid that if Sam finds out, Sam won't want to be with him anymore and will leave him alone. He's terrified, Sam realizes, and that jars him. He feels guilty himself--he hadn't even considered it, so wrapped up in his own fears that Dean wouldn't want to be with him.

 

"So you don't... you don't hate me?" Sam asks, needing to hear Dean say it.

 

Dean shoots up, his jaw ticking as he looks at Sam with wide eyes. "You thought I hated you?"

 

Sam smiles a little bit, his eyes filling with tears. It seems stupid, now. Paranoid. "You don't spend much time with me, you don't even look at me--I thought maybe you thought I was different after what happened. Not the s-same Sam."

 

"Oh, kiddo," Dean looks even worse, and Sam anticipates the rough hug he's given, which is more of a chest bump with arms included than anything else. He hugs Dean back, curling his arms around Dean's torso as tightly as he's able. "No... I've been too busy bein' pissed at myself, y'know? I thought I--I thought I didn't deserve you. That you'd figure it out and would want me gone."

 

"Figure what out?" Sam's heart goes double time in his chest as he pulls away to meet his brother's gaze. "Dean, I have to know. You have to t-t-tell me."

 

Dean scrubs a hand down his face. "I didn't mean any of it," he promises, his features turning earnest and youthful. "You gotta know I had no idea what would happen, Sammy. None."

 

Sam stays silent, trying to encourage Dean with his eyes and body language.

 

Dean takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and starts talking.


	6. VI. One year and one month ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam wants to leave the life. Dean wants to keep him here, and he's willing to do anything it takes to show Sam that hunting is a part of who they are. He fucks up.

Dean lay back on the motel bed, the T.V. set to a dull chatter somewhere off to his left. He stared up at the ceiling, turning the mold stains into shapes and animals in his mind.

 

He felt like someone had pinned him to the floor and gone over him with a rolling pin. Every muscle felt pulled out of place, ringing with the dull pain of exhaustion. His body was peppered with cuts both little and big, dutifully stitched up and bandaged by Sam. They all stung as if someone had dabbed them with lemon juice. His back hurt, his feet hurt, his head hurt, his fucking soul hurt. He closed his eyes and relaxed, giving every ache the respite it deserved.

 

A key scratched and fumbled in the lock and he turned his head to the right to watch Sam slip in, his hair wet and dark, curling around his ears. His face was pink with the cold of a Fall rain shower and he was in the usual plaid shirt and tan jacket.

 

He looked good, considering. When Dean had first come back from hell, Sam had been around thirty pounds underweight with bags just as big under his eyes. He'd been restless and fidgety, watching over Dean instead of getting any sleep himself.

 

For someone who had summoned Lilith, killed her, and found Dean's contract and ripped it up, he seemed to look like he'd gone through Hell more than Dean did. Dean didn't remember Hell, and, after shaking and screaming at Sam until he was hoarse about what a reckless, stupid idiot he'd been, he found out it was part of the spell Sam had done. A blood spell that had taken months for Sam to finish, as it required enough of his blood to kill him.

 

It had taken them a good long while to really get back on their feet. Dean had the occasional nightmare, Sam was anorexic, and demons were rioting left and right, promising their vengeance on Sam. Everything had seemed pretty touch-and-go for a while, and Bobby was their stable backbone, their last source of sanity.

 

They'd just tricked and trapped eight demons in a factory in a massive devil's trap. They exorcised them all with one incantation, voices rising and falling in sync. It hadn't been as simple as they'd thought--the bastards started to catch onto Sam and Dean's plan, and they both sustained a few bumps and bruises before the job was done.

 

Which it finally was, thank fucking god. Dean closed his eyes, listening to Sam drop a bag of takeout on the kitchenette table. Sam hadn't eaten at all at first, and Dean was helping him pile on more weight and muscle. Three thousand calories of Kung Pao chicken was at the center of his amazing plan.

 

He heard Sam's chair creak and the squeak of styrofoam containers being opened. "You gonna eat anything?" Sam asked him, opening a little packet of plastic forks and knives.

 

"Mmmh," Dean replied, not sure he even had control over any of his limbs anymore. "N'a bit."

 

Sam snorted. "Your loss," he said, mouth full of chicken and rice.

 

Dean smiled to himself.

 

It took him another ten minutes to convince his body to sit up and his legs to hobble over to the table. He practically fell into his chair, and it was a miracle the thing didn't give out from under him. Sam handed him container after container, getting up to grab two beers and open them with the table's edge.

 

They ate in a comfortable silence, Dean periodically breaking it to moan orgasmically. Hunts always gave him a massive appetite, and nothing filled it better than fried foods and meat.

 

"Thank god," Dean sighed, shoving half of a spring roll into his mouth, eliciting a disgusted frown from Sam, "for this amazing Chinese food. After a job like ours, there's nothin' like it."

 

"You should be thanking me," Sam retorted, stealing a chicken piece form Dean's box, "I'm the one who remembers your order and goes out to get this crap with a sprained ankle."

 

"Oh, boo hoo hoo," Dean mocked, theatrically rubbing at the corners of his eyes. "World's smallest violin, pal. I can get it out and play a song, if you like. I know you're into boring music."

 

"Bite me."

 

"Now Sam, have you earned that?"

 

Sam rolled his eyes, but his face broke into a goofy, dimpled grin. He threw a fortune cookie at Dean. On the surface, it seemed like any of their childish fights, egging each other on, but Dean knew something had changed since he'd died. Now Sam couldn't stay annoyed for longer than a couple of minutes, and the wide smile he was giving Dean was shadowed by the hollow look in his eyes, like he couldn't believe Dean was alive, that Dean was okay.

 

Dean hated that look.

 

"Bitch," he blurted, just to bring Sam back to Earth.

 

Sam's eyes softened. "Jerk," he murmured, like it was something intimate, making Dean's skin itch with something unnameable.

 

He started reading his fortune to bulldoze over the moment, turning it into a cheap innuendo. Sam read his own, turning it into a clever insult about Dean's manhood, damn him, and any cloud over the moment passed.

 

The rest of the night passed by the usual way--relaxing, watching T.V., and letting their injuries heal. When Dean turned to comment on the National Geographic special they were watching, he expected to find Sam typing away on his laptop, finding another group of demons to track down, but he was met with something else. Sam was sitting empty-handed on his bed, his eyes cloudy and far away. He had that deep-in-thought, brow-furrowed, constipated look on his face that Dean knew so well, his mouth slightly open. Dean called his name once, but Sam didn't respond, too far lost in his own head.

 

Dean grabbed the remote off of the nightstand and slowly upped the volume on the T.V. until it was almost deafening, finally snapping Sam out of his reverie. Sam blinked and looked around with doe eyes, his mouth snapping shut as he got his bearings.

 

"You back with us now, Sam? What were you even thinking about?" Dean wasn't sure he really wanted to know.

 

"Uh... what?" Sam turned and looked at him, absent-mindedly running a hand through his hair. "I'm fine."

 

Dean scoffed. "Not what I asked. What were you obsessing about this time?"

 

Sam shook his head. "Nothing, it's nothing." His lips flattened out and he bit the inside of his cheek. "Just thinking."

 

"Sam..." Dean probed, turning the volume back down and shuffling until his legs hit the floor and he was sitting on the edge of his bed, facing Sam's. "C'mon, dude."

 

Sam looked like he was going to argue, but the expressions melted off his face until he just looked like a little kid, lost and confused and a little bit hopeful. He moved to mirror Dean's position, their knees only a couple of inches apart. "Don't you ever think it feels like it's inevitable?"

 

Dean blinked. "Uh, gonna need a little more detail, Sam."

 

Sam's hands twitched in his lap and he grunted, frowning. "I just mean... we've both died already. Doesn't this crazy crusade after demons just feel like it's gonna end the same way? With one of us bloody and in pieces and-" Sam paused, his adam's apple bobbing. He looked away. "It just feels like nothing good is gonna come out of this."

 

"We save lives," Dean said. "That's good. That's not nothing."

 

"That's not what I meant," Sam sighed, "I meant nothing good is gonna come out of this for _us_. It only ends in pain."

 

"It's the job." Dean was lost, searching Sam's eyes for a meaning behind his rambling. "We go out fighting. You know that, Sammy." A chord of worry struck in Dean's heart. "What's this about?"

 

"I just don't think we have to!" Sam exclaimed, something intense and urgent possessing his face, making him lean forward until Dean could smell his sweat, and Sam began to bounce his knee. "We don't have get ourselves killed, Dean. We can live full lives, just like everyone else."

 

"Is that what this is about?" Dean growled. He'd rather die than admit it, but his heart skipped a few beats thinking about Sam leaving him again, Sam leaving him alone. "Quitting? Do you wanna go back to school, Sam? The world-"

 

"Will be fine without us," Sam interrupted gently. "We got the thing that killed Mom. We got so many other things. There are other hunters out there, Dean. Jo. Ellen. Bobby. Everyone. Our job was killing the demon, then getting you out of hell." Sam paused. "And... I do, Dean. I wanna go back to school. Maybe as a teacher this time, something in mythology. And I don't want to do it alone. I want you to be there with me."

 

Dean felt his heart swell at the desperation and honesty turning Sam's voice quiet and raspy, full of emotion. He appreciated the sentiment, liked being reminded that Sam needed him just like he needed Sam, but he wasn't sold. It all sounded too good to be true, like a pipe dream. "I would never fit in at Stanford, and you know that," Dean said. "What would I fucking do, anyway? Sure, hunting isn't ideal. But I like helping people, Sam. And this is how we do it. End of story."

 

"No it isn't," Sam said. "It doesn't have to be Stanford. I'm older. I don't have to run away to California anymore. You love Ann Arbor. I can go to the University of Michigan. You can be a mechanic, you're so great with cars. Or a firefighter. Didn't you want to be that when you grew up?"

 

"And I grew up." Dean told him quietly. "Things change."

  
  


Sam made a little frustrated noise and rubbed at his eyes, his face turning red. "Isn't there anything you want for yourself? Anything at all?"

 

 _I want you here, I want you safe_ , Dean's heart chanted selfishly, but he kept his lips shut tight. "It doesn't matter what I want," he said instead. _If I kill all the monsters before they get to you, you'll stay safe. This time around, I'll protect you._ "This is what we're good at, Sam. We're still fugitives. We don't have real credit, real ID, real anything. If we try to leave the job... the other shoe's gonna drop. Like it did with Jessica."

 

Dean clamped his mouth shut as Sam's shadow fell over him. Sam was towering above him, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Don't bring her up like that," he growled, his voice tremulous, "like she's nothing. We're done talking about this."

 

Sam limped over to the table and began closing takeout containers, putting the empty ones back in the bag and putting the leftovers in their tiny mini fridge.

 

Dean stood up but froze, unsure. Sam's shoulders were tense and he kept swiping his hair away from his eyes like he did when he was on the verge of tears. "Sam-"

 

"I said we're done talking about this," Sam snapped, slamming the fridge door. He turned around and strode across the room in just a few steps, snagging the trash bag and heading out the door before Dean could think of anything else to say.

 

Dean turned his eyes back to the T.V., but his mind was elsewhere. He sat on the edge of his bed, watching Sam go to the dumpster outside in his periphery. Sam didn't come back in when he was done, instead paced back and forth next to the Impala, staring at it. His face was unreadable from so far off.

 

Sam headed back toward their room and Dean turned his eyes away, trying to pay attention to what the narrator was saying. The door creaked open. "I'm going for a walk," Sam muttered, just loud enough for Dean to hear him, his head peeking into the room. A second later, he withdrew it, closing the door and striding past the window, raising a hand briefly before disappearing out of sight.

 

Dean laid in bed for hours, his thoughts turning in repetitive, useless circles. To be honest, he didn't really know why he'd been so against Sam's dire hopefulness, all of Sam's ideas. The topic of the conversation had rubbed him the wrong way, like any mention of Palo Alto did, like the idea of Sam being happy without him did.

 

He knew he was being shitty and unreasonable. Sam had even confessed that he'd like Dean to be there. But Sam wasn't thinking it through. The only thing Dean was good at was hitting a moving target from 45 yards away. At anything other than hunting, than moving across the country, he was useless. He'd only drag Sam down if he came along. Sam would grow to resent him, would want him gone again. Sure he could fix a car, but Dean couldn't fucking stay still to save his life. His attention span was short when it came to towns, and he only saw unhappy families, fighting each other just to fight the monotony.

 

He didn't want that to happen to him and Sam.

 

But he was still too selfish to let Sam go alone. If Sam went, he might miss Dean, might act nice and cuddly whenever Dean visited, but he'd forget about Dean eventually, and Dean would be left with nobody.

 

Like this, he could make a difference, not just with innocent civilians but with Sam. With Sam by his side, they moved like one perfectly-oiled machine, able to read each other's movements. They had their own silent language, their own techniques and plans, and together, they were practically unstoppable. Dean loved that feeling. It was one of the only things he really lived for, really looked forward to.

 

Where would that be if Sam made him camp out in a two-story house with a white picket fence?

 

No, even though Sam still dreamed about that kind of stuff, it just wouldn't end well for either of them. It sure as hell hadn't last time. It had broke Sam's damn fragile, beautiful heart.

 

Even if Sam resented him for it, he was doing Sam a favor.

 

Sam came back in around two in the morning.

 

"Dean? You awake?" he whispered, carefully placing the keys on the table with a muffled jingle. "Dean?"

 

Dean didn't respond. He laid there in the dark, eyes shut, ears trained on Sam's movements. Sam came to a stop by his bedside and sighed. Dean felt his sheets get tugged up over his shoulder. Sam left, slipping into the tiny bathroom and closing the door. A beam of weak, yellow light spilled out from under the door, and Dean stared at it, eyes stinging.

 

Dean made a decision. If Sam ever did ask to leave him, to go back to his life without his brother, Dean would let him go, no matter how it pained him.

 

That's just what older brothers did.

 

\---

 

Dean woke to the harsh sliding noise of the curtains being yanked open. Sunlight burst into the room and assaulted his eyelids. He groaned, rolling onto his back and pressing his forearm over his arms. "Five more minutes," he grumbled, waking up with each second that Sam clanked around, being purposefully obnoxious, no doubt.

 

"Daylight's wasting, Dean-o," Sam told him in a crappy impression of their father, his voice dropped down low. Sam slapped his ankle incessantly. "I have coffee and it's gonna get cold."

 

Dean sat up, stretching, wincing as his muscles protested. "When did you go out?" he blinked at the bleary, unfocused shape of Sam in front of him.

 

Sam shrugged. "Earlier."

 

Dean checked the time. Eight-thirty. Fuckin' early risers. Sam'd probably been up since five and let him sleep.

 

Both of them seemed to have shrugged off the argument from last night, giving each other silent apologies, in the form of quick, sincere looks and donuts held out as an olive branch, which Dean ravenously accepted.

 

It was still weighing on Dean, though, and he couldn't shake his thoughts of the future, of all the dismal "what if"s Sam had brought up.

 

"There's a shifter in Grand Rapids," Sam announced, looking up from his laptop. "Two down already."

 

"A shifter, huh?" Dean wanted to ask about last night, if this was really what Sam wanted to do, but he thought better. He grinned. "That's classic, isn't it? I think we deserve a break from demons. They're rilin' us up."

 

"I thought so, too." Sam's answering smile was just a tad forced. "I thought you might like this case."

 

Fucking Sam, always putting other people before himself and feeling guilty about everything. "It's perfect," Dean declared, clapping his hands together and standing, knees cracking. "Baby's been itching to rev that engine, too."

 

Sam chuckled. "You're like a kid in a candy shop."

 

"Even better than that, good find," Dean said, enjoying how Sam's face lit up at the praise. "Leave in an hour?"

 

Sam nodded, dimples still showing. "Works for me." He turned back to his computer, and Dean saw the flash of a university emblem before Sam clicked away from the page.

 

It could've been nothing.

 

\--

 

The miles and states flew by, nothing but a familiar, comforting backdrop to Dean’s real world, sitting inside of Baby and flipping through cassette tapes, biting his bottom lip.

 

"Would it kill you to get a single R.E.M. album?" Sam bickered, selecting a Bob Seger tape and slipping into into the deck.

 

"Yes, it would." Dean cranked up the volume, humming along with the acoustic guitar floating around them. "Good choice. Seger grew up in Ann Arbor, you know. We'll be passin' right by there."

 

Sam scoffed. "Yeah, give or take a few hundred miles."

 

"Eh, whatever," Dean swatted Sam. "Still fitting."

 

Sam made a noncommittal noise and they both lapsed back into silence, listening to the music and leaning back against the worn leather.

 

Dean hoped this hunt would remind Sam about the better side of their job. Gutting innocent civilians to kill the smoky demon inside them wasn't exactly the happiest, cheeriest case. Sure, in the long run, they were helping a lot of people, but Sam always stared down at the corpses with a haunted, pale gaze, always made sure to shut their eyes if they stared sightlessly up at the sky.

 

With shifters, it was pretty cut and dry. If it was killing people, it had to go. They could save families from a monster. They could go undercover as something cool, too. Sam would get a kick out of that. One of the victims had worked at the local humane society. Maybe Sam could pose as an earnest volunteer and pet a shitload of dogs. He'd like that. Dean had a soft spot for police uniforms. He could claim a jurisdiction issue or say two counties were working together. He'd need a pretty solid background, then, would have to spend some decent cash on that.

 

"Dean," Sam murmured, taking Dean out of his plans.

 

Dean glanced over at Sam before returning his gaze to the road. "Yeah?"

 

"I know a guy in San Francisco."

 

Dean laughed. "Should I be worried, Sammy?"

 

"No, I meant--" Sam blushed, looking down at his lap. "A guy who does fake identities, makes up backgrounds, gets all the right documents. It's kinda pricy, but I hear he has real connections. He’s the real deal."

 

Dean nodded. "That's good. I wanna be a cop sergeant this time, we can use him to make us legit. Good thinking."

 

"I didn't really mean about the hunt," Sam said slowly, shifting restlessly and fiddling with the hem of his shirt. "I meant... he could give us new lives. New, clean lives, a second chance."

 

Dean let out a breath. "Sam... we talked about this."

 

Sam nodded quickly, too quickly, rubbing a hand across his face. "Yeah. Yeah. I just--there's always a way, I mean. There's always hope."

 

There was something stuck in Dean's throat, dammit. He coughed, clearing his throat. "So, uh, where are we headed to first? The precinct or one of the witnesses?"

 

Dean kept his eyes glued to the road, but he didn't have to see Sam to know the look on his face. The silence spoke for itself. Sam looked like a kicked puppy, downtrodden and desperate, with big, moony eyes. He was probably giving Dean a look of pity, like thought Dean was scared or some bullshit. Sam the eternal, earnest therapist. Dean didn't want to see it.

 

It didn't take long for Sam to get his act together. "The precinct," he said, sounding distracted. "I have a pretty good file made up, but I still don't know everything. We definitely need the police records..."

 

Dean listened to Sam's soothing voice as he rambled on about case details. Even if Sam didn't want this forever, he didn't hate their life, either. Dean could hear the geeky enthusiasm seep back into Sam's tone as he got more engaged, suggesting theory after theory for motives, patterns, anything. Sam probably had a pinboard full of photos and sticky notes in that giant head of his, stringing things together, cogs turning every moment of every day.

 

It was raining when they finally pulled into the motel parking lot in Grand Rapids. Typical. Sam got them a room, jogging to the office and back, his hair plastered to his skull. Dean went around to the trunk, popping it open and reaching in to grab a duffel. Sam pressed up against his side, his warmth leaking into Dean. It was always comforting to feel Sam breathing, to smell him, to see the veins in his arms and know that he was alive. He didn't want to lose that.

 

It only took them one trip to get everything situated (thrown carelessly around only for Sam to huff and organize things at the bases of their beds) in their room, and then it was down to business. Sam plugged in his laptop and praised the motel for having decent internet.

 

The rest of the day was a blur to Dean, but not in a bad way. He was beyond used to the rhythm of road life, how it breathed in and out with pulses of slow and fast: slow with traffic and suspicious receptionists, slow with grieving family members, slow with figuring out that last missing puzzle, and then fast all at once when night hit with more deaths, Dean and Sam grabbing up sawed-off rifles with bloody hands and running into abandoned buildings, tracking things that glowed and growled and bit.

 

Dean had his finger on the pulse of the hunting life, and he knew that any moment now, the heart rate would shoot up, fluttering about erratically. They'd interviewed four different people across town, read over the file a million times, and constructed an actual pinboard.

 

Watching Sam waver back and forth in front of their work like a man possessed, bobbing between written point and photo, connected with strands of yarn, was like watching a genius at work. Sam probably _was_ a genius. Dean loved watching him work, his chest warming up with immeasurable pride.

 

Sam grumbled under his breath, adding pins and strings and making connections with his fingers and synapses.

 

"Holy shit," Sam breathed, his pupils dilating, and Dean bounced back on his heels, grinning despite himself.

 

"Yeah?" he asked, goading Sam on. "You find something?"

 

"I know why he's going after schoolteachers," Sam gasped, and was enough to set off the chain reaction, for things to really fall together.

 

It took them less than ten minutes to come up with a fully-formed plan, finishing each other's sentences and grabbing weapons and materials. It was like a drug for Dean, a familiar addiction. He loved it. He loved when Sam found some tiny little thread of a clue and connected it with the web of information, explaining everything and finding a way to stop it. They bounced ideas off of each other, a perfect complement, and Dean knew this hunt would be a good one. He could feel it down in his bones, could feel the passion in Sam's bones, too. Their unspoken connection was vibrating now, rising up to full power, and they'd need it to track and take down the shifter.

 

This, Dean knew with crystal-clear conviction, was what they were made for, two pieces that made a brilliant team when pieced together.

 

He couldn't stop the whoop of victory as they drove to a factory on the edge of town, ready for the kill, and Sam laughed along with him in the brightest, loveliest noise Dean had ever heard.

 

\--

 

Dean came up with a plan of his own as they silently armed themselves with guns and knives, cramming weapon after weapon into the secret pockets and zippers that littered their jackets. If he really wanted Sam to be on board with him, the way to do it was to let Sam take point. He'd already let Sam piece together all of the information, keeping quiet so Sam could puzzle out anything Dean noticed himself. But if Sam led them on the actual hunt, killed the big, scary monster and saved the day, well... there was nothing better than that. Sam would see, Dean was sure.

 

Silver bullets, silver knives, and walkie-talkies made up the meat of their arsenal for this particular hunt. They both had silver bracelets on and flashlights hooked to their belts.

 

Sam fell behind Dean instinctively, but Dean slowed down, grabbing Sam by the arm. "You wanna give it a shot?" he asked, shooting Sam a wide, toothy grin.

 

Sam's eyebrows shot up, but he collected himself immediately, ever the professional. "I, uh, yeah, sure," he fumbled, stepping in front of Dean like he was walking on glass. It only took a few more steps for Sam to enter the headspace of his hunter-self, crouching down and moving along silently, rolling his steps from his heels to his toes with the speed and grace of a panther.

 

Dean was so distracted by his admiration of Sam that he almost forgot to act as backup. He mentally berated himself, gripping his pistol a little tighter and peering into the dark of the factory entrance, letting his eyes slowly adjust. The hall went left and right, their flashlights highlighting the thick layer of dust and trash on the ground. Sam looked down each way, his eyes narrowing and scanning the perimeter.

 

After a moment of deliberation, Sam jerked his head left, looking back at Dean for affirmation. Dean nodded at him and Sam gave him a stiff nod in response before disappearing down the right hallway. Dean took his position in the left, crawling forward, keeping his light aimed at the ground.

 

Sam didn't have to say anything for Dean to understand the plan. It was one of their usual ones, and a smart plan on Sam's part. They didn't actually know if the shifter would be holed up here or if he was staying elsewhere. Judging by the state of the victims, this was the type of shifter that lived on the fringes, staying away from human society. Factories and abandoned buildings were the preferred hangouts for those types, or caves, if there were any. They had all night--Dean had a sort of sixth sense that they'd catch him tonight. He wasn't worried about it.

 

His walkie-talkie stayed silent. Nothing on Sam's end so far, and Sam was probably at the end of the hall, just like Dean was. He pushed through a set of double doors, closing it slowly behind him to muffle the rusty whine the hinge made. He swung his flashlight around in a quick arc. He was in another hallway, and ambient moonlight lit up a wide room at the end of it.  It looked like it housed some kind of assembly line. The space was huge--the ceiling was about two stories up and covered with windows. He was probably in the heart of the factory, deep down in the bowels, exactly like what a shifter would prefer.

 

He pressed himself up against the wall and clicked off his flashlight when he heard a bottle roll across the ground in the room before him, echoing loud and clear in the large space. He heard a scratching noise, like a piece of cardboard being dragged across the floor. He could picture the trashy den of the shifter perfectly in his mind's eye, a bird's nest made out of human detritus.

 

He crept forward, inching to the entrance to the room. One door out of two was left on its hinges, the other one nowhere to be seen. He stayed behind the door, watching the dark shape of a man move about through the empty window pane at the top of the door.

 

The shifter dug around through a backpack, facing away from Dean. Dean's heart rate shot up, and he clicked off his safety, mentally preparing to rush forward and shoot the thing in the heart.

 

He paused. If the building was mirrored like he thought it was, then Sam was coming up to the entrance on the other side of the building. The shifter was a little closer to Dean's side, but unmistakeable and pretty noisy. Dean imagined a layout in his head, with a little dot showing Sam's progress. By now, Sam had to have seen the shifter. Sam could do the rush, deliver the killing shot. Dean would come to his aid, as if he'd been walking just a little slower, inspected a room on the way.

 

A second person came into view from around a pile of broken machinery and stretched, murmuring something to the shifter.

 

It wasn't Sam.

 

Shit, there were two. They hadn't accounted for two.

 

Dean bit his lip and rolled his shoulders. His body warmed up and he closed his eyes, controlling his breaths. Hunts never went as planned. He'd been down this road a billion times. He just had to focus, and find another solution. There always was one.

 

He could risk sacrificing the element of surprise and turn on his walkie-talkie, tell Sam about the plot twist. They could both go in guns blazing and hope for the best in a two-versus-two brawl. The shifters might have guns, too, but at least the factory had several good places for cover. Lots of machinery and desks and shit. They still had the advantage, the experience.

 

Dean saw the briefest glint of light up by the windows and skylights, reflected by the soft, blue moonlight filtering in. Through the dark, he could see a small balcony-slash-observation deck thing at second-floor level, just beneath the window sills. Steadying his shot by hunching over and resting his elbows on the railing was none other than Sam Winchester, stealthy motherfucker and brainiac extraordinaire.

 

Fuck yes.

 

Sam had armed himself with a rifle, and Dean knew from experience that the sight on it was accurate as hell. There was practically no way Sam could miss. Dean pumped his fist in the air in silent victory, counting the seconds until the inevitable shots rang out, two in quick succession, straight to the heart. He shifted backward to get a better view, bending his knees slightly so he could sprint out if Sam needed him.

 

He tripped on a soda can.

 

He landed on his ass hard, wincing. There was definitely going to be a bruise there and his tailbone was going to be sore for weeks. Shit. There were definitely some more important things at hand than his pain. He got back up and saw two fast shadows rushing toward him, heard Sam shout out his name. One of the shadows turned around.

 

Dean ran at the shifter still headed toward him and recognized her as one of the teacher's assistants they'd interviewed. Or, at least he recognized the skin of the assistant. He tackled her to the ground and was quickly blindsided by a sharp punch to the jaw. He fell off of her, seeing stars. Warm blood dripped down his neck. She must've been wearing a ring. He got his bearings fast enough to avoid the slash of a sharp little blade. She shrieked like an animal, swiping blindly right and left. Her moves were predictable, and clumsy, and Dean dodged right and left, sweating bullets. He swung a leg out and caught her ankle, knocking her off balance. She rose up, righting herself, her chest practically rising up to meet the muzzle of Dean's gun.

 

He fired.

 

Her body slumped lifelessly to the ground with a muted noise, her hair spreading across the cement. A rose of red bloomed across her white blouse, marring her otherwise peaceful form. Dean wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting blood.

 

He looked up to the balcony.

 

Sam's rifle, meant for long distance, wouldn't help him now. He'd need to get out one of his pistols while avoiding the second shifter, who was just as stabby from what Dean could see. Dean ran toward them, kicking aside metal bits and pieces, not caring about the racket he made now. It didn't matter. He kept his eyes trained above, his neck aching as he stumbled to navigate over to the back wall where the stairs that led onto the balcony were situated.

 

"Rita!" The shifter screamed, his voice hoarse and raw. "What did you fucking do to her?"

 

Dean could hear the grunts and pants of combat as he approached the base of the stairs, but he couldn't get a decent vantage point to see what was going on or who had the upper hand. He could only hope the shifter was just as inexperienced as Rita-or-whoever had been. He stormed up the stairs, the metal bending and screaming underfoot. He ignored his mild fear of heights, praying that the stairs wouldn't collapse from under him.

 

He reached the top of the stairs just in time to see the shifter slash Sam's wrist in what summed up to a stroke of pure luck. Sam swore, and the pistol he had in his hand slipped out of his fingers and fell a story down to the factory floor below with a loud clatter. Sam's blood dripped like a broken faucet and Dean saw red, so much red, storming over with renewed energy as Sam managed to pull out a silver blade with a shaking hand.

 

The shifter turned toward Dean, grabbing a fistful of Sam's shirt collar as he did.

 

"This is for her," he spat, and jerked his hand, shoving Sam toward a break in the railing that Dean hadn't noticed they were heading toward.

 

Sam's body disappeared, and Dean froze, confused. His brain didn’t understand what had happened in the last couple of seconds. It couldn’t process. He heard something hit the floor. It sounded like a bag of sand. Sam had been right there and now he was not.

 

The next few moments were blind instinct to Dean. He could hardly recall them a moment later. He moved forward just as fast as the shifter did, maybe faster. He shot swiftly and efficiently, then fired four more shots for good measure. He stood over the body, trembling with exertion, and broke its neck with his steel-toed boot, pressed his heel down until he heard the larynx being crushed.

 

He looked down at the glazed over eyes and swallowed thickly, choking on air. He blinked, trying to anchor himself back to reality, to slip off the comforting blanket of denial. He took his foot off of the corpse and went to the edge of the balcony, looking down at Sam's body.

 

Sam was like a ragdoll, Dean noticed, his voice detached and emotionless inside his brain. His limbs were all akimbo, and one of his legs was twisted completely around at the knee. From here, he couldn’t see Sam’s chest rise up and down, couldn’t see him blink, couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t hear any breaths, either.

 

He took the stairs back down two at a time. One of them bent under the pressure but he didn’t notice and kept moving. He pocketed his gun and fell to his knees at Sam’s side, his hands hovering over Sam's chest but not touching. If Sam was hurting then touch might be bad. Touch might make it worse.

 

Shit, he sounded like a fucking caveman. _Get it together,_ he chided himself, curling his fingers into fists and letting his fingernails dig into his palms, hard enough to bleed. To ground himself to reality. Flipping out and letting his emotions blind him wouldn't help Sam in the slightest. Sam needed Doctor Dean, needed the Dean who had practiced stitches on an orange as a teen for months until he was satisfied with the precise, straight sutures.

 

"Sammy?" he asked, peering closely at Sam's face. Sam's mouth was open, and now that Dean listened, he could hear Sam struggling to breathe, like a dog in labor, like an engine turning over but not igniting.

 

It was so dark. He pulled out his flashlight and aimed it down at Sam, saw darkness around his head in a halo and didn't understand at first.

 

Darker than normal blood, almost black, pooling out at a rate too fast to mean anything good. Sam was gulping like a fish out of water, gasping and straining, the noises loud and harsh in the echo chamber of the factory. His eyes were wide open, unblinking, staring up at nothing, one pupil dilated, the other blown. Like dead eyes. Like the shifter. Only Sam was breathing a little bit.

 

Dean detached himself again. He recalled his lessons with Dad. Black blood--broken skull. Gulping breaths--serious brain trauma. Sam had fallen sixteen feet and cracked his head open, broken his leg, and... Dean carefully probed Sam's body, but without Sam to tell him where it hurt, it wasn't the best job. Two broken ribs, maybe more. Hell, for all Dean knew, his spine was broken. Paralyzed.

 

He held Sam's hand. It was cold and clammy. The tips of his fingers twitched slightly against Dean's skin, which was a good sign, Dean thought, considering.

 

He let out a single sob but tightened his fist, drowned everything out with the sharp stab of pain. He pulled out his phone--screen cracked, wouldn't turn on, probably from that stupid motherfucking fall. God, what an idiot. What a _failure._

 

He was wasting time. As carefully as he could, like an artist carving shapes on the head of a pin, he slipped Sam's phone out of his jacket pocket, trying not to jostle Sam. He was trying to listen to Sam's breaths for changes and trying to ignore them at the same time. It took him five tries to successfully dial nine-one-one. His fingers just weren't working and his vision was pretty blurry.

 

He didn't really remember telling the operator what happened, but she was telling him to calm down in voice annoyingly lacking inflection. Why the fuck wasn't she freaking out? This was Sam they were talking about. Dean wanted to strangle her.

 

He didn't know how long he sat there, holding Sam's hand. He traded off between looking at Sam and looking anywhere but, traded off between talking to Sam and staying absolutely silent.

 

All at once the place was flooded with paramedics and lights. They murmured for a bit, and he managed to get back inside his head long enough to tell them that they'd gone exploring and Sam had fallen from the balcony. A paramedic put a blanket around his shoulders and he watched them maneuver Sam onto a gurney, and then away.

 

Rolling Sam down a hallway that he'd run through not so long ago. Helping him breathe when he could do it just fine on his own less than an hour before.

 

Dean let himself be herded after Sam, tolerating the hand at the small of his back, ignoring the voice at his ear. He watched the top of Sam's head. His hair was all sticky and matted with blood and bits of skull. And bits of other things.

 

Dean paused to throw up, one of the paramedics staying with him, and Sam disappeared around the corner in a flurry of activity and shouted-out medical jargon.

 

"Sir, you've got to calm down," Handsy Paramedic said, and he brushed off all of her little invading hands, and went jogging after Sam. He pushed out into the open air, ignoring the chill, his breath puffing out in front of him. They were loading Sam into an ambulance. He had an oxygen mask covering his mouth and a brace on his neck. Something was beeping incessantly. One of Sam’s hands slipped off of his chest and fell off the edge of the gurney, his fingers brushing the floor of the ambulance. A paramedic placed the hand back on Sam’s chest.

 

His paramedic caught up. "Do you want to ride with him?" she asked quietly, touching his arm.

 

He shrugged her off. "Where is it going?" he asked instead, his voice sounding fuzzy and detached.

 

"St. Joseph's," she said, and he nodded. It didn't mean anything to him. He didn't even know why he'd asked.

 

"I'll take my car," he murmured, walking away from her without looking back.

 

The Impala felt unfamiliar around him as he tailed the ambulance down some quiet country road, the sirens blaring, advertising Sam's hurt. He wanted them to shut up. If they shut up, it wasn't an emergency, and Sam would be fine. Sam had to be fine, obviously, he'd just gotten him back for real. He couldn't, he couldn't--

 

He slammed his hand on the wheel, smearing blood over it. "He's okay," he said out loud, and looked at his eyes in the rear view mirror. The eyes of a liar.

 

Dean wanted to beep at the ambulance to get its fucking act together and speed up but he didn't think it would help Sam get better. It might make things worse.

 

The hospital was twenty minutes away, but it felt longer than Hell, felt like fifty years. He could practically see Sam's blood dripping out from under the ambulance door, running across the license plate and onto the ground. Drip, drip, drip, until his heart went slower and slower and stopped.

 

The rest of the night was a half-remembered buzz. He didn't fight when they wouldn't let him enter the E.R. with Sam. He sat in the waiting room, jiggling his knee and biting his lip. He ignored the stares of the other patrons, except to glare at a lady who tightened her grip on her purse.

 

When the doctor came to get him, he had to physically shake himself to focus on what she was saying. He hadn't slept in twenty-four hours but Sam needed him. He needed to listen to her to know how to help Sam.

 

It all really sunk in when he heard the words _coma_ and _massive brain damage_. Unlikely to wake up. Life support. His vision greyed out and he slid quietly to the ground, shutting his eyes and letting the nothingness take him away from it all.


	7. VII. Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean have a moment.

"I'm s...sorry," Sam whispers, and his heart crawls up into his throat, threatening to suffocate him. He blinks back tears and places a hand on Dean's knee. "God, I'm so sorry, Dean. You shouldn't have had to g-go through that." He can't imagine it. He tries to imagine being in Dean's shoes, seeing his brother all broken and crumpled like that, and he just can't. He's fucking seen Dean die already, torn to shreds, but he still can't imagine it. Maybe it's because his brain isn't the same. Maybe it's because it hurts too much. Jesus. No wonder Dean’s a mess.

 

"Don't feel sorry for me," Dean snaps, his face a bright shade of red. He slaps Sam's hand off of his knee, his jaw ticking, a vein standing out on his forehead. "Don't you fucking get it? As horrible as that was, as fucking shitty, it was all my fucking fault. I stayed behind when I had a fucking billion perfect shots just so you could save the day yourself. You didn't ask for that. I pushed for you to take the lead in some crazy attempt to force you to like our lives, Sam, so you wouldn't fucking leave me. I was weak and stupid and pathetic and I got your head smashed. I did. It was all me, okay? I--" Dean gasps, closing his eyes and swallowing, getting his breath back. "I turned a simple hunt into the worst day of our lives because I was _selfish."_

 

Sam's lips thin, his eyes doing the same as he tries to get a rein on the wash of emotions flooding through him. "Dean, you couldn't have known," he whispers, trying to convey how serious he was with his eyes, but Dean keeps glancing away, looking down at his lap. "You said you slipped on a can, right? That was a complete accident. I would've got-t-t-ten the shots without that. It would've been fine. It wasn't your fault, D-Dean. It was just an accident. A shitty, unpredictable thing. You couldn't have known."

 

Dean scoffs. "Yeah, sure."

 

"No, shut up," Sam growls, his body buzzing with passion, his brain rushing at a mile a minute, and he hasn't felt this alive since before his accident, not once. "Stop feeling bad for yourself and stop taking it out on me."

 

Dean's head shoots up and his eyes widen, and Sam almost regrets what he said because Dean looks so stricken.

 

"Stop killing yourself with guilt." Sam breathes slowly in and out of his nose, one, two, one, two. He concentrates on his tongue, on his words getting from his head to his mouth with as few mistakes as possible. He wants the full effect, wants Dean to really understand. He wishes his words were a physical thing. He'd pound them into Dean's skull until Dean was full with them and believed them. "I'm right here. I'm okay. I need you. I need you to be my friend. I need you to be my brother. If you really want to make things better with me, then fucking try. Help me with my physical therapy. Help me get better."

 

In a spur of the moment thing, he grabs Dean by the shoulders and shakes him, his bangs brushing against Dean's forehead with the proximity. "I forgive you, okay? Just please come back. Please."

 

The next thing he knows is Dean's arms being thrown around him, Dean's fingers curling up in the material of Sam's shirt at his back. Dean smashes Sam against his body, hugs him so tightly that it's stifling. Dean jams his chin into the crook of Sam's neck and Sam's sure that it'll leave a bruise. He hugs Dean back, burying his nose in Dean's shoulder and closing his eyes, the scent so familiar, and shit, he hadn't even realized how badly he missed it.

 

Dean lets out a ragged noise and Sam only realizes it is a sob when he feels his shoulder getting warm and wet from tears. Dean does it again, and again, his body trembling with his cries. Sam can hardly remember the last time Dean really cried. He's shed a tear a time or two, but like this... god, he must've been a kid. That hunt when Sam was fifteen and he'd been paralyzed by spell, unable to even blink. Dean had thought he was dead, and Sam had to lay there, listening to Dean begging him to _just fucking move._

 

Sam blinks out of his thoughts and pets Dean's back, unsure of what else to do. "It's okay," he says, frowning. He combs a hand through Dean's hair. That's what Dean does when he's upset. "Um. You're okay."

 

Dean gets his breathing under control and quiets, but he doesn't let go of Sam for another few minutes. They sit there in silence, rocking back and forth slightly. Sam doesn't ever want to move.

 

When Dean finally pulls back, his eyes are red and bloodshot. He smiles, and the whole thing wobbles and collapses. "Sorry," he croaks, laughing once and rubbing his eyes.

 

Sam waves a hand, the muscles in his arm straining. "D-don't worry about it," he says. "I think you needed that."

 

Dean dips his head in acknowledgement. "Yeah."

 

They lapse into silence. Sam can hear Dean thinking, knows Dean’s reading him in the same way. Sam puts his hands in his lap. One measly hug had taken a lot out of him. He's been neglecting his arm exercises lately, and he’s definitely paying the price. He folds his hands together. "I've s-sorta fallen behind on my physical therapy and I haven't even seen my vocal coach in two weeks..."

 

Dean glances over at him. He swallows. "You need some help with that?"

 

Sam smiles softly. "Yeah. If I get back on schedule, I should b-be able to start driving again in a few weeks."

 

Dean narrows his eyes. "With those noodle arms of yours? In Baby?"

 

Sam laughs. "Hey, man, if you wanna be my ch-chau... chau..." He licks his lips. _Damn_ , how does that fucking word go? He knows what it means, knows it's having a driver, but the rest of it just doesn't come. Like there's a data cap in his head and he just hit the monthly limit.

 

"Chauffeur," Dean supplies, looking a little like someone kicked his puppy.

 

"Thank you," Sam says, "if you wanna be my chauffeur my whole life, I won't complain."

 

Dean seems to read the urgency in Sam's eyes. _Move on_ , Sam begs wordlessly. _That's gonna happen a lot. You can't look at me like I'm a ghost of someone you knew every time my brain fucks up._ Dean's eyes clear and he scoffs, shoving Sam lightly. "You won't complain? Are you sure, Sam? Mr. Backseat Driver Sam Winchester?"

 

Sam rolls his eyes. "Shut up. And t-t-technically it's passenger seat driver."

 

Something shifts in Dean's gaze then, and Sam can see something click into place behind his brother's eyes, but he can't quite place what. Dean sort of looks like he's coming home after years of deployment, sent off to fight some unimaginable war. He looks at Sam like Sam is his home, and after months of Sam searching for that look and getting cold emptiness instead, it's a little overwhelming.

 

"Bitch," Dean murmurs, relaxing back into the couch.

 

Sam snuggles into Dean's side and Dean throws an arm over the back of the couch. Sam can feel the warmth of Dean’s skin on the back of his neck. "Jerk," he replies in kind.

 

Dean leans forward to grab the remote, the moment effectively ended, but Sam doesn't mind. He's kind of emotionally exhausted, actually, and having a lazy little moment with Dean is exactly what he wants. It's what he's been missing these past few months. The comfortable domesticity of the road doesn't have to be gone, he knows it. They can share that same intimacy here.

 

He sighs as Dean flips through channels. They've talked enough for now, but someday Sam's gonna have to talk to Dean about the permanency of their tiny apartment. Sam thinks Dean might see it as a temporary stop, like someday Sam will be like he was before and they can just hop in the car and leave all of this behind.

 

If one good thing came of Sam's loneliness since he woke up, it's that he's had a lot of time to come to terms with reality and himself. He's had hours of introspection, locked away in his room because he was afraid of facing the look on Dean's face.

 

He knows he will never be exactly as he was before he fell. The dent and scar on the back of his head attest to that. He’s heard all the medical jargon, did all the research himself, had to stop because of migraines. It took him a long time to finally accept that he's not "worse"--he’d built a lot of his identity on being the "geek boy," on his 4.0 GPA at Stanford and his ability to spin out Latin or recall thousands of obscure facts and pieces of lore at a moment's notice.

 

Now, his brain can't remember those things so well. He's fairly certain he's now missing a chunk of his childhood, but he obviously can't place what. He doesn't want to ask Dean. Dean would get this horrible look of agony on his face at the idea of Sam not remembering. So he doesn't ask. His brain can't recall facts or words or parts of sentences, and if he pauses to remember, his mouth gets stuck on the same syllable, the same sound, until everything just shuts down.

 

It's annoying as hell. He can't stop it. It makes him feel so fucking stupid, even though he knows he isn't, he's just disabled, he's just different. He knows John would look down at him with disappointment, knows his friends back at school would have less and less patience for his fumbling, both mental and physical.

 

It was really tough to think about at all, at first. But now, he's okay with it. Kinda. Dr. Walton is a fucking lifesaver. She's not just a great therapist, she's a good friend, and she gets it. She pulls him out of endless, circling dark thoughts, helps him see the positives.

 

And now, with Dean slowly opening back up, there are a hell of a lot more positives. Sam appreciates that. With Dean's help, he'll build muscle again, improve his reflexes and recall memory, and a whole bunch of things. He has motivation now, reason. Before, it was just to take up time in his day, to busy himself.

 

Now he has a life to get back to.

 

His eyes flutter shut when Dean's hand reaches up and his fingers brush through Sam's hair, combing through the unruly strands. Dean trips up for a second when the pads of his fingers brush over the thick, jagged bump of Sam's scar, but he lets out a breath and slowly runs over it, feeling it for the first time, feeling the small hollow there. Dean goes back to the crown of Sam's head, petting him slowly. Sam rests his head on Dean's shoulder. He wishes he could purr. The repetitive, familiar motion of Dean's calloused fingers at the back of his head loosens up all his muscles, makes him boneless.

 

Dean keeps at it for a few minutes, and Sam listens idly to the cop show that's on the T.V. Dean pauses and rests his hand against the back of Sam's neck and makes a little noise.

 

"Hmm?" Sam asks, articulately.

 

"When's your hair gonna grow back out?" Dean asks, picking at short hairs at the base of Sam's skull. "You're stealing my look."

 

Sam shrugs, and it's hardly movement at all. He's too tired to give any real effort. "It'll happen," he says, slurring across the syllables. He yawns, tilting his cheek into Dean's shoulder, seeking the warmth.

 

Dean chuckles, and Sam feels it against his face. "You gonna sleep?" Dean whispers, and brings his fingers back up to Sam's head, resuming his ministrations. God, yes.

 

"Mmm-hmm," Sam mumbles, nodding. "Night, Dean."

 

Dean's hand slips down to his waist to pull him closer. Sam curls his arm around Dean's tummy. Satisfied, Dean returns his fingers to Sam’s scalp, combing slowly, brushing short bangs away from Sam’s forehead.

 

"Night, Sammy."


	8. VIII. One week later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean attempt to settle into a new routine.

Sam lands on his knees and elbows, the mat beneath him cushioning the fall, but it still burns behind his eyes and near his heart, where his pride lies. He closes his eyes and takes a moment to breathe before he gets up and sits back on his haunches. "This is f-f-f-fucking stupid," he grumbles, his face flushed bright red with exertion and embarrassment. Sweat drips down his spine, and he shivers. He looks over at his crutches, leaning innocently against the wall, and licks his lips. He never thought he’d miss the annoying bastards digging into his skin, but lord, Dean has had him on his feet unassisted for half an hour now, and Sam can feel it in every single one of his bones.

 

Dean walks over to him, his cheeks pink and healthy, his skin devoid of sweat. He's not even panting, the jackass. He puts a hand on Sam's back, and Sam fights hard against the urge to swat it away and snap at Dean. It's not Dean’s fault he’s having such a rough go at it.

 

"C'mon, Sam. You have to practice to get better," Dean says, squeezing Sam's shoulder. The touch is gone a moment later. Sam hears Dean's knees crack as he stands up. "Up, Sam. Again."

 

Sam groans. He bites his lip, holding back a complaint. It would come out garbled, anyway. When he's upset, his brain goes out his ears. His sentences don't make sense and things don't piece together. He's just gonna get more and more upset if they keep at this, he knows it. His hands will start shaking and all Dean will have to do to take him down is poke him lightly in his side.

 

 _Ugh. Fuck it,_ he thinks, his lip curling up in a silent growl. He might as well channel his anger into something productive. He stands up and leaps at Dean, his arms stretched out, hitting Dean square in the chest with his palms.

 

Dean makes a quiet "oof" noise and goes down, his eyes widening into big saucers, his mouth falling open. Sam can practically see it in slow motion. Sam lands on Dean's chest, straddling him. He pushes at his shoulders, pinning him to the ground.

 

"T-take that," he says, grinning triumphantly, raising his chin and basking in victory. "That's what you g-get, now stop pushin' me around."

 

Dean hits him the arm. "I'm trying to beef you up, you skinny jackass," he says, glaring. "We spar, remember? This is sparring. This is me helping."

 

To demonstrate his point, Dean grabs Sam by the hips and flips them over, holding Sam down with a single hand as Sam struggles and flails about, trying to get some kind of upper hand. He tries kicking Dean in the shin, but it probably feels like the brush of a butterfly’s wing to Dean.

 

It wears him out almost immediately and he flops back against the mat. He meets Dean's eyes, which are crinkled at the corners and bright with amusement. Dean's smiling down at him. Dean's having a good time. The realization startles Sam. He'd been so sure Dean was only seeing his weaknesses, his faults, things that hadn't been a problem for him a year ago.

 

But Dean looks like he could do this all day. Something warm pools in Sam's belly, and for a short moment, he doesn't mind that Dean got the upper hand. He doesn’t mind Dean’s hands being all over him, tight and bruising. He blinks, surprised at himself. He shivers.

 

"You're getting a kick out of this, aren't you?" Sam asks, trying to refocus, narrowing his eyes. "Enjoy it while it lasts. Y-you won't be the bigger one for much longer."

 

Dean gets off of Sam, standing up and stretching. "Whatever you say, tiger. Or cat, I guess, ‘cause cats are tiny like you." He purposefully turns his back to Sam, relaxing and leaning back on his heels. Sam's eyes go from Dean's calves to his ass to where Dean's shirt stretches across his shoulder blades. There's not a single damp spot of sweat, while Sam's shirt is practically plastered to his body.

 

Sam can't even get up off the damn floor. He glares at Dean's back, fantasizing about knocking the breath out of his egotistical older brother. Sure. Take advantage of poor, hurting Sam.

 

Sam starts cackling before he can control it, his eyes welling up with tears. He doesn't even know what's so damn funny. Dean turns around, raising an eyebrow and peering down at him.

 

"Sammy?" he asks, cautious. "You knock a screw loose?"

 

Sam can't catch his breath. He doesn't bother with giving his brother a response and keeps laughing instead. After awhile, his vision starts to dim a little, and his laughs turn hoarse and hiccuppy, and he probably should've drunk some water before starting sparring practice.

 

Dean looks genuinely worried now, and Sam gets a sort of petty satisfaction from watching Dean kneel at his side, completely lost and out of his element.

 

"It's just," Sam starts when he gets his breathing under control, "You were standing there, obviously taunting me, and I was f-f-fantasizing about beating the shit out of you."

 

Dean pouts.

 

"And I realized even though things kinda suck, we were both having fun. And it all seemed so s-stupid, you know? I'm one-hundred-and-eighty pounds and an inch shorter. How fake does that sound?" He smiles up at Dean. He doesn’t even know if he’s making sense, but whatever.

 

Dean doesn't seem to find it quite as amusing as Sam does. His face falls for a moment, but he collects himself. "Sounds pretty fake," he agrees, his eyes going distant. "But you'll be Sasquatch again in no time. Especially with me kicking your ass on the regular." He holds out a hand, and Sam takes it instead of biting it like he wants to. Dean hauls him upright, and he leans against Dean for a moment, his vision swimming. His head feels weightless and like a fifteen pound bowling bowl at the same time.

 

"Just you wait until I even the score," Sam mumbles, pushing off of Dean. He goes straight to his crutches, slipping his arms into the holds and putting his fingers around the grips. He’s a pro at moving around with the crutches now, which makes Dean think he shouldn’t be using them, even with his bad leg giving him a pretty severe limp without them.

 

He rolls up the mat and sticks it in the closet alongside the rest of his physical therapy gear. He wipes beads of sweat off of his forehead. He turns around and Dean's right there, holding a glass of ice water. Sam could kiss him. He tells Dean "thank you" with his eyes and gulps the whole thing down, leaning heavily on the crutches.

 

Dean takes the glass from him when he's finished, and Sam can't find it in himself to get annoyed at the mother-henning. He idly watches Dean set the glass in the sink and pull a bottle of beer out of the fridge, humming as he fishes a bottle opener from the drawer next to him. It's one they've always brought with them. They used to keep it in the glove box of the Impala. Now it stays in an actual kitchen. It had taken Dean months to finally move shit into the apartment. The only things that remain in the car are Dad’s leather jacket and a few of the guns. Everything else has found a new home, like the two of them. It doesn’t bother Sam as much as he thinks it should. He still has to broach the topic of permanency to Dean, but he’s waiting for the right time. It never seems to come.

 

Dean opens the bottle with a single jerk of his hand and takes a swig, tossing his head back, his adam's apple bobbing. Dean sets the bottle down, looking over at Sam and smacking his lips. "Something on my face?" he asks.

 

"Hmm?" Sam flushes, looking down at the ground. "S-sorry, lost in thought."

 

"As always," Dean says, just loud enough for Sam to hear. He grabs his bottle again but his arm freezes before it reaches his mouth. He stares down at it, his brow furrowing. "You want some?"

 

Sam shakes his head, avoiding Dean's gaze. "N-no, I think it messes with my meds."

 

Dean frowns. "Oh." He sets his beer down on the counter and checks his watch, groaning. "I gotta get down to the shop, dude, we'll have to keep practicing later."

 

Dean looks like he's just told Sam his pet kitten died, and Sam rolls his eyes, waving Dean off with a vague hand gesture. "The shop is practically downstairs," he says, "it's fine. I'll work on speech stuff, don't worry about it."

 

Dean nods, biting his lip. "Or, I mean.” He coughs. “I don't think Roy would mind if you watched me work, it's not like you're a screaming baby or anything. Y'know, so you're not bored out of your mind."

 

Sam beams widely, going down the hall to grab his coat out of his room. "All you have to do is ask, Dean, it's not hard," he calls, leaning his crutches against the bed and slipping his arms into the sleeves of his jacket.

 

"Don't make me take it back!" Dean yells.

 

Sam laughs, grabbing his crutches again and following after Dean. Dean holds the door open for him, and Sam sticks his tongue out as he passes, making his way over to the elevator. His arms and legs are still throbbing from his workout, but Dean doesn't have to know that. He leans against the wall, trying to make it look casual, not purposeful.

 

Dean doesn't comment. He walks over and the elevator dings, sending them both down to the lobby.

 

Dean's shop is a tiny little building, squashed between two banks. The brick facade is worn and moss-covered, but the front window is bright and clean, at odds with the rest of the exterior. Front and center in the window is an ancient upright piano, the wood varnish worn and faded away to a dull grey color. Atop the ivory keys rests a strange little plaque of a skeleton in a reaper's cloak, holding a sign that says "Welcome to Hell." The top of the piano is covered with various objects, always changing. Right now there's a big silver skull, two white high-heel shoes, and a few metal candles.

 

Sam always found it fascinating. Dean confessed that the display was what made him walk in in the first place. He'd thought it might've been a discreet sign to show that this was a hunter-friendly workplace. They'd gone to several of those. Dean had sketched up their anti-possession tattoos, and they'd found a place in Sioux Falls that specialized in sigil tattoos and gotten them done in less than an hour.

 

After meeting Roy and Anna, though, he knew that it was just a quirky fucking shop owned by quirky fucking people (pun intended), and well. They'd been the only people he hadn't actively despised while Sam had been comatose, and he kept coming back and asking stupid questions until they'd offered him a job.

 

Now, Dean had turned it into a hunter-friendly place without telling Roy. He drew up sigils and symbols for hunters, sometimes consulting Sam for advice.

 

Inside, Dean strode over to the window and pulled a container of salt, a silver rosary, and some cat's eye shells out of his pocket, placing the objects on top of the piano next to the candles.

 

"God, finally!" a feminine voice crows, and Sam turned to see a tall, blonde-haired woman striding toward them, her face lined with smile wrinkles. She stopped in front of Sam, grinning, her blue eyes sharp and mischievous. "I've been trying to get him to put some personal shit there for fucking months. It’s a rite of passage. I take it you're the reason why? Sam, right? Dean doesn't ever shut up about you."

 

Sam grins, pleased, his dimples popping out. He hears Dean grumbling beside him but ignores it, instead holding out a hand for her to shake. "Anna?" he asks. "Dean's told me about you."

 

"The one and only. You've met Roy already, right?" She shakes Sam's hand with a firm confidence that crushes his bones. He winces when she lets go. Dean snickers.

 

"Uh, yeah." Sam swallows, unsure of what to say to her. She reminds him so much of Ellen that it hurts a little. She's probably wondering what the hell happened to them. As far as Sam knows, Dean's only talked to Bobby once. Sam adds that to his mental list of things to bring up to Dean. Later.

 

He's only been in the shop once before. Dean decided to give him an official tour a few days ago, and that was when he'd met the giant wall of a man named Roy, who had more ink than bare skin, even on his bald head. Before all of that, Sam had only seen the shop from the outside when he'd gone on walks, surreptitiously checking up on Dean. Dean was always hard at work, staring down at some work in progress with laser concentration, his lips bitten swollen and shiny, his green eyes narrowed in focus.

 

"Sam Lowell!" A voice bellows, and that's all the warning Sam gets before he's being crushed against Roy in a constricting embrace. "Good to see you again, boy. Dean's had less of a stick up his ass since he brought you 'round."

 

Sam laughs. "Sounds about right."

 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Dean clears his throat. "So, back to work?"

 

Roy nods. "Got your client in the back," he says, jerking his head back toward a chair in the far corner, where a skinny man is seated.

 

Dean grins. "Right." He turns to Sam and gives him a thumbs-up, walking into the back to greet the customer.

 

Sam lingers further behind, gathering his crutches up and leaning against the wall behind Dean. Dean puts on plastic gloves and chats with the guy for a couple of minutes, pulling out a stenciled drawing of a tiger and setting it on his little work stand, where his tattoo machine rests, ready to be used.

 

Sam watches Dean work. It's just as interesting as it was to watch that time when he'd been missing Dean so acutely he just _had_ to go see him, standing awkwardly outside the window. Only this time, Sam is right up close with the action, watching as Dean prepares the needle and presses it carefully into the guy's forearm. The customer flinches slightly, and Dean says nothing and keeps working, starting at the tip of the tiger's ear.

 

Around fifteen minutes later Anna comes over with a folding chair, and she fumbles over her apology so Sam spares her the trouble and thanks her, slipping his arms out of his crutches and falling down into the chair.

 

He practically moans orgasmically. After being on his feet all damn day and getting pummelled by his older brother, the shitty metal chair is like a godsend. Dean's too deep in his project to be paying any mind, so Sam leans back and lets his eyes fall shut, feeling all of his various aches and pains throb in time with his heart.

 

Sam wakes to Dean shaking him by the shoulder. He grunts, sitting up straighter, his legs sticking straight out as he stretches. "Hmm? What?" he drools, yawning widely. "Dean?"

 

He blinks up at Dean, squinting against the fluorescent lights of the shop. There's nothing outside the windows, only blackness and the dim, yellow pools from light posts weakly illuminating empty streets.

 

Dean's face blocks out the light, and he's right in Sam's face. It takes him a moment to focus on Dean's eyes. They're soft and kind, and Dean's saying something, shit. Sam forces his body to wake up some more, and he concentrates on listening to Dean.

 

"...Didn't even realize you'd fallen asleep, I'm sorry, man," Dean's saying, and his hand is still on Sam's shoulder, and it's a constant, warm pressure. Sam blinks slowly, and Dean shuts up.

 

"Yeah, you need a bed," Dean chuckles, his arms sneaking under Sam's armpits and forcing him onto his coltish, wobbly legs.

 

Sam puts one arm against the brick wall, grabbing his crutches with the other. His hands are slow to move and Dean takes action, gently tugging Sam's wrists down to the handle. Sam grumbles wordlessly, shuffling away from Dean. He can do it himself. He yawns again. Dean's arm loops around his waist and he sighs, leaning into his side.

 

Sam looks around the shop. Each of the chairs and stations are completely empty and wiped clean. Most of the lights are off, and the neon sign in the window has been turned off. Anna and Roy are both gone, and their purple car no longer takes up a place at the curb. The wall clock across from him says he’s been out for almost an hour.

 

Dean's arm stays around him as they slowly plod home. They're in no hurry, and Sam's still asleep on his feet. Dean's humming something, a butchered rendition of a Creedence song, most likely.

 

Sam doesn't remember reaching their apartment, or even the trip up, but the next thing he knows is Dean prying Sam's arms out of his coat sleeves, his hand pressing into the center of Sam's chest and forcing him to sit down. His legs go out from under him and he lands on the edge of his bed. He starts to fall backward, but Dean's arm is at his back, keeping him upright. Dean disappears for a moment, hanging Sam's coat up, and Sam begins to list to the side, but Dean's back in time to catch him.

 

Sam lets Dean unbutton his shirt and slip it off his arms. He lets Dean undo his belt, lets Dean get him down to a t-shirt and boxers. He'd never say it out loud, not even at gunpoint, but Dean looking after him and Dean's arms moving him around and manhandling him are some of his favorite things he's ever experienced, hands down. He's only been really sick a couple of times, but he remembers it as a purely positive experience after, if only because of Dean's careful ministrations, Dean's constant attention and love.

 

Dean helps him get under the covers. Sam tries to slip his legs under the sheets, but he can't fucking move them. They've given up for the day. His right leg won't even bend at the knee, sticking out awkwardly.

 

Dean does everything for him. Dean gathers his legs up, his arms under Sam's knees, and slides them under the covers, tucks Sam in like he's a little baby.

 

Sam tries to say "thank you," but it comes out as more of a sigh. Dean seems to know, though, and he stays to sit at Sam's side, petting Sam's head. The bed creaks and Dean's gone, the lamp at his bedside turning off a second later.

 

Sam wants to call out to Dean to come back and stay for awhile, but he just doesn't have the energy. His brain is hovering around one percent power, about to shut off, with his permission or without. The only thing he can do is think at Dean and hope he's listening, somehow.

 

The bed dips again and Sam smiles loosely, his eyes staying closed. He hears the rustle of sheets and the bed shakes underneath him. He hears Dean sigh at his left, turning and shuffling and tugging the blankets higher.

 

Sam's almost back asleep when the movement starts up again, and Dean's arm slowly lies across his waist, like Dean's unsure if he's crossing some line or something. If he is, Sam thinks that particular line should've been destroyed a long time ago.

 

"Hurry up," he manages, proud of his ability to verbalize anything.

 

Dean grunts what sounds like an acknowledgement, then cuddles closer, Sam's back pressed up against his front in a long line of warmth and comfort, just like when they were kids. The arm around his waist tightens slightly, a protective hold, daring anything to come near him.

 

It makes him feel loved in an indescribably big way.

 

It makes him finally, truly feel like Sam again, like Sammy and kiddo and little brother, like all those pieces he thought he'd lost with his fall. It makes everything feel more real, more peaceful, like maybe they can really do this. Maybe he can tame his brother, get him to settle down without hating his life, and together, they can make it work.

 

Dean lightly kisses the back of his neck, and all the "maybes" disappear, and Sam's never been more certain of anything in his life.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first attempt at a reversebang. I'm really disappointed I didn't manage to get it finished in time. I am really proud of what I've managed to create so far, though. I have hope for this verse. Any comments/tips/con-crit/anything would mean the absolute WORLD to me. Thank you so much!


	9. IX. Seven months ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean goes to see Sam's therapist and learns a few things.

They were really pushing Sam with all this therapy stuff. Dean had to drive him back and forth between the hospital, the therapy building, and their apartment, and it meant he worked fewer hours at Spinning Spirits, the tattoo shop, but Anna and Roy didn't seem to mind. It did make paying all the damn bills a bit more of a hassle, though, so Dean often spent late nights out in bars, hustling pool. He would submerge himself in the illusion of normalcy, fooling himself that he'd swagger out of the bar a couple hundred bucks richer and he'd see Sam hunched over some case file in the passenger seat, his hair falling into his eyes.

 

When he finished for the night, he'd walk out, and the blast of cool, midnight air would soak his bones with guilt. The hunting life was guilt. His memories were drenched with it, so thoroughly he couldn't even fucking properly use them as a coping mechanism. 

 

He always came home at night and checked on Sam, lingering in the doorway of his room. Something about Sam's eyes made him look younger all the damn time. Maybe it was the lack of hair, too. When he was dreaming, though, Sam looked even smaller. In his newly-skinny beanpole body, he looked eighteen again, holding a college acceptance letter in his fists like a comfort blanket. At least Sammy didn't get nightmares anymore. That was one plus side to the sideways tilt of their new lives.

 

Dean shook himself out of his thoughts. It wouldn't do Sam any good now, anyway. He'd just dropped Sam off at his physical therapy appointment with Jefferey. Sam was getting better at figuring out how to move his right leg, which was pretty much fused at the knee. He couldn't bend it properly, but there were strategies designed to work around that, to help him stand up, sit down, and dress with little to no trouble. And, in Sam-like fashion, Sam was catching on quickly, even if the exertion always made him feel grumpy and hopeless.

 

Dean always tried to make Sam feel better, but he usually ended up leaving Sam alone to deal with it. He just didn't fucking know how to cope with any of it. He didn't know how to help his brother. All his usual tried-and-true Sam tricks didn't really apply anymore.

 

It  _ sucked _ . 

 

He was still in the facility, some extension of the hospital Sam had been admitted to. Usually, he'd be on the road right now, working on a client for around an hour before coming back to pick Sam up. Except this time, Sam's normal therapist, Dr. Kate Walton, had called him asking for a meeting with him. She'd asked in that "I'm not really asking” way that snooty higher-ups all could do so well, so here Dean was, loitering in the hall, trying to turn the sour scrunch of his face into something more pleasant.

 

He'd always been fucking skeptical of shrinks. He didn't want them digging around in his head and telling about his issues. He knew he had fucking loads of them, he didn't need to hear some bored, rich dude tell him all of his flaws from a comfy armchair. No fucking thanks.

 

He was entering the "rude asshole" measure of lateness, so he knocked once and strode right in, mentally upping the cheese factor on his smile, forcing himself to look like he was really interested in all of her crap. "You wanted to see me?" he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets and striding around, peering at leatherbound tomes on her bookshelves, her various degrees pinned on the wall, her knick-knacks on her desk.

 

"Yes." Dr. Walton had auburn hair that lit on fire in the pools of afternoon sunlight filtering in from the windows. She pushed her glasses further onto her nose and smoothed down her slacks. She gestured to the chair across from her desk. "Please, sit."

 

"Okay." Dean coughed. He hovered for a moment, peering down at the chair like it would grow a fanged mouth and bite him in the ass. He finally sat, slowly lowering himself down to eye level with Dr. Walton. Shit, she was tall. And kind of intimidating. She wasn't smiling at him.

 

They sat in silence, staring each other down. Dean straightened up and gazed back at her, issuing a challenge with his eyes. She wasn't going to screw with him or accuse him of neglecting his baby brother. Nope. None of that. She had to see that Dean wasn't one to be messed with.

 

"You probably think I want to talk to you about your brother," she began, breaking the war-like moment, shuffling some papers and leaning back in her chair, "but I don't. I want to focus on you."

 

"Oh, gimme a break," Dean said, scoffing. "Listen, lady, I'm not gonna add some nice numbers to your paycheck. If I wanted to bitch about my problems, I'd go to a bar. Are we done here?" 

 

"No," she responded, her voice quiet, but icy, steely. The glint in her eye reminded Dean of his father. "I don't know what you think of me, though I think I can hazard a guess. Even so, I don't care. This is a free meeting, Dean, off the books. I suggest you make use of it. I know for a fact you're struggling to properly care for Sam, to relate to him. He tells me about his home life. Things are a bit rocky?"

 

Dean froze, his heart starting to race like a gun leaving the chamber. What had Sam told her? Did Sam hate him? Did Sam see how weak he really was? He swallowed, narrowing his eyes. He shifted in his seat, his mind moving across the building to where Sam was probably sweating his ass off through leg exercises. Sam didn't talk much these days. Then again, Dean never asked much.

 

"What does he say?" he finally croaked. He searched her eyes for a hint, a clue, but she was like a cursed box, hiding all of her emotions away under layers of protection. 

 

She went lax, her arms slumping in her lap. Dean hadn't even noticed that she'd been all coiled up, like a snake, ready to bite. "Dean, don't worry. He cares about you. He says you work a lot, that you don't see much of him?"

 

Dean twitched. "Yeah. Hospital bills, you know." He cleared his throat.

 

Dr. Walton nodded. "Are you worried about Sam?"

 

Dean couldn't tell if she was employing some psych trick or something, if she was testing him. "Why wouldn't I be?" he asked, flaring up like a threatened cat raises its scruff.

 

She smiled, shaking her head at him. "I wasn't accusing you of anything," she pacified. "You're obviously very protective of your brother. Let me specify. Are you worried about his future?"

 

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I don't--I feel like he's fucked, and I don't know what to do."

 

She sat up, leaning forward. She gestured at him. "I'm here to help, alright? Please, say more. I'll just listen."

 

Dean felt itchy all over, like he was on a movie set, light bulbs heating up his skin and beady little camera lenses staring at him. Fuck it. "It doesn't seem like he's getting much better. He doesn't talk that much, he needs help in the morning, and he's like, a hundred friggin' pounds. I mean, have you seen the kid? He's a goddamn ghost. He's not like he used to be."

 

"But is that always a bad thing?" Dr. Walton asked.

 

Dean rolled his eyes. "In this case, yeah. He's got brain damage and mobility issues. In our line of work, there's a lot of running, a lot of thinking on your feet. I don't think he's ready for that anymore."

 

"Your line of work?"

 

Dean shrugged. "We, uh, we hunt a lot. And we travel around, doing odd jobs like extermination. It's mostly physical labor, that kind of thing."

 

Dr. Walton peered at him, looking for something in his expression. He peered back. "That's not your job anymore."

 

Dean's mouth felt dry. "Well, I guess not." he finally ceded. He had no idea where this was going.

 

"You work as a tattoo artist. Sam is currently unfit to work. I would never recommend putting him in such threatening circumstances again. When he can be fully independent again, I think working part time in a library would be more fitting. This town has several branches, and through the hospital, we can always supply Sam with work. It won't be an issue."

 

Dean frowned. "You say that like it's a given."

 

Dr. Walton sighed. "Dean, getting over trauma of this scale is a huge endeavor. It won't happen all at once. It may not even happen in a single year, or two, or three. He may always struggle with certain cognitive processes. Now, I'm going to make a guess here, and you can shut me up if I'm wrong. But from what I've learned, Sam was quite the brainiac before he started attending my sessions. I think you both may believe that he's a worse person for having lost part of that. That's not true. He's simply different in that regard. In regards of his personality, his motivation, his interests, he is exactly the same Sam. If anything, I believe he can be made a better man from his experiences. I'm not a woman of faith, but I think everything that happens to us can be of some benefit."

 

She paused, taking a breath. Dean couldn't look away for her, and he had to admit, she seemed to actually give a damn about Sammy, and he had to give her points for that.

 

"This isn't the end of the world, Dean. This isn't some big pause in your life. Stop thinking of it as just a tragedy. Sam is still here. He is still breathing. He is still a kind boy. And you still look after him. Isn't that something to be grateful for? You can't go back to before. You can't ‘fix’ something that is not broken. So instead of wallowing in grief about having 'lost' Sam, embrace what you have. Simmering in guilt and loathing will get you nowhere."

 

"That still doesn't tell me what to fucking do," Dean said. "I know I've still got my brother, and I am so damn grateful for that. I can't even say how much, I... I thought he was dead for awhile. I thought the doctors were gonna come out of the hall and just shake their heads, offer me some bullshit line. But we... our line of work was our lives. It was who we were. Sam was the research geek boy. We've never settled down like this before. I know he's hurting, okay? But it's my fault. And I'm hurting too. I don't know what to do in this town, at my job, and I don't know what to do with Sam. But at least I'm trying my best for him."

 

"I know you are," Dr. Walton said, her voice soft and gentle. Her eyes were shining with compassion, and Dean let go of some of the anger he was holding, exhaled his bitterness. He wouldn't have believed it before he came in here, but he knew she was just trying to help him out. "But you do have to let go of the past. You live a new life now, and it's different, and it's scary, but it's what you have. You're a durable young man. I know you'll figure it out. You remind me of my son, actually. He was sent to Iraq and came back other man. Very scarred, with such dark, open eyes. He said it was like hell. But he isn't a worse man for having suffered through that. He knows more now. About life. It sucked, and it will always suck, but he's better from his experiences. You are, too, whatever your hell was. And Sam will be, too. I know it."

 

Dean's throat was clogged and sore, and he blinked, staring at her, his mouth gawping like a fish. She somehow knew how to say all the right things, how to hit all the places of pain and worry hiding in his brain. "Thank you," he said, his voice cracking. "I'll, uh. I'll try to move on. I'll try to help him. I'm just. It's not easy."

 

She grinned at him, her eyes crinkling. "The most worthwhile endeavors never are."

 

She stood and stretched. Dean took his cue and got up as well, leaning on the balls of his feet as she grabbed papers and set them in trays and desk drawers, mumbling something under her breath. When she was finished, she straightened, holding out a hand. He took it, giving her a firm handshake. 

 

"Thank you for actually coming," she told him. "I know I just talked at you for a couple of minutes, but I'm glad I could help somehow. Sam is lucky to have you. Have a good day, Dean."

 

He bobbed his head, flashing a tiny smile at her. "You too, Dr. Walton."

 

He waved at her and turned to leave. It was only behind the wheel of his Impala that he let his mask fall down, falling forward, his forehead thumping against the steering wheel. He closed his eyes, but the tears still flowed anyway, and he tightened his hands into fists, feeling his whole body tremble. 

 

He let himself shake quietly for several beats before he sat back up, rubbing his eyes and rolling his shoulders. He was okay. Sam was okay. He could fucking do this. He would, god damn it. He would do it for Sam. They would end up better from these experiences, just like she said. Somehow. There was some light at the end of all of this. There had to be. 

 

Sam deserved that much. Sam deserved the best fucking life that Dean could offer him, and even if Dean was flawed and scared and lost, he would try to give that to him. He would try to give Sam happiness. It was the only thing he knew how to do.

 

He put the key in the ignition and felt his baby roar to life underneath him. He turned out of the parking lot and headed back to Spinning Spirits. He hoped Roy wasn't busy with another client, because Dean had a personal project he wanted done, all across his back. He thought of the old piano in the window, the one that Anna played sometimes.  _ To hell and back. _

  
Dean had done it before. He'd do it again.


	10. X. Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean meet with Dr. Walton in one last large session before Sam's appointments lessen to once a month. Sam and Dr. Walton both have a revelation.

Sam's knee goes up and down.

 

The car pulls onto the highway, the inertia pressing his shoulder blades into the vinyl of the seat. The car sways at the skilled control of Dean's calloused hands, moving like a boat on the sea, rocking on slow waves.

 

It sort of fucks with his head. He's not tired, but his head is up high, floating on a bird's wing, separate from his body. He's aware of his knee, the good one. It jiggles and trembles, the tempo increasing the closer they get to St. Joe's.

 

His other knee, dead, dead weight, but damn is it hurting like something alive. It doesn't move. His other knee compensates. His fingers fiddle with the seam on the inside of his jeans. There's a loose thread and he knows he shouldn't pick at it, but he does.

 

He can't control the mannerisms of his body, doesn't want to bother. He can feel his shirt hanging against his waist, knows his waist is still way too small by the way Dean stares at it sometimes. He shouldn't be able to count his ribs but he does before he goes to sleep, just to ground himself: one two three. Four five six. Up to twenty-four. It's better than counting sheep. Sam thinks that's unrealistic.

 

"Dude," Dean says, and his voice is so clear, not like it's coming from miles away, and it helps tether Sam's head to his body, but he's not quite all the way fitting into the right in place yet. He looks at his brother with what he hopes is a normal expression. "It's just a normal meeting. No need to burn a hole through Baby."

 

Sam frowns. "Huh?"

 

Dean makes a breathy, exasperated noise, his fingers ticking on the wheel like they'd rather be poking him. "Just sit still, okay? You're just gonna make yourself more anxious if you stay all jittery."

 

"Okay," Sam says, and he focuses on his knee, gets it to slow. Dean switches lanes. Their exit is coming up. His knee trembles and lets loose in a burst of energy, his boot going tap tap tap on the carpeted floor of the car.

 

Dean chuckles. Sam doesn't know what he finds so funny, and it sort of irritates him. He hates when his brain decides to go all foggy, to hide normal things from sight and make him work to find them. He doesn't know why Dean laughs.

 

Still, though, his body recognizes the familiarity of being an annoyed little brother, and his mind slips a little closer to his body. He's almost all the way there. He breathes like Jefferey taught him to, like he's in some yoga class. Jess took one at Stanford for the easy credit.

 

Memories. Memories help him get centered. What else can he think about? He listens to Dean humming along with the radio, tapping along to the beat. The ring on Dean's finger, it's Dad's. Not Dad's wedding ring, they burned him with that. It's a silver ring with runes, Dad wore it for awhile but gave it to Dean. Sam never got one. He's always found it pretty. It's a piece of Dean now. Dean would probably calmly tear the whole apartment to pieces looking for it if he lost it.

 

Dean got the ring on his sixteenth birthday. Same birthday he gave Sam some whiskey just to watch him spit it out and crinkle up his face. He remembers being so grumpy because Dean found it so funny, kept trying to get him to drink other things. But Sam had learned his lesson. The cake he tried to bake Dean didn't taste any better, but Dean ate the whole thing. It wiped away all of Sam's anger and replaced it with happiness, the indescribable, untouchable, Dean-centric kind. The safe kind.

 

Sam opens his eyes and breathes out. He stretches his leg out and moves his knee and it stills. He puts his hands in his lap. He looks out the window while Dean scours the parking lot for a free space, cruising up and down the lanes and grumbling under his breath.

 

Their spot is pretty far away from the facility, and it always pisses Dean off that he can't park in the handicap spots for Sam. They hadn't gotten the parking permit yet, as they have a lot of hoops to jump through. Sam always has to convince Dean not to park there illegally. Which makes him think about driving. His driving leg is the bad one, but he's been under the impression that he will most likely be able to drive again, yet Jefferey (or anyone else, for that matter) hasn't really brought it up. Dean will probably try to teach Sam himself, which Sam would usually appreciate, but he likes to have Dean driving him everywhere. That way, he never has to be alone.

 

Dean taps him on the shoulder. Right, zoning out again. He grabs the door handle and opens the door, using it to lever himself out of the car and into a standing position. He leans on the door and bends down at an awkward angle to grab his crutches from the foot well. He rears back with them in his grasp and gets his arms in the loops before he can topple over. Dean comes over and shuts his door. Sam could've done it himself. He doesn't say anything.

 

They make their way over to the entrance, and Sam's actually a little bit grateful that their spot was such a great distance away. It makes for good exercise. His physical therapy always cleared his mind, just like morning runs used to when he had use of both of his legs. He can jog now, but it tires him out pretty quickly. Dean doesn't like to let him do it for long, but he has to if he's going to get better.

 

He's sweating by the time the sliding doors whoosh open before them. Thank god the place is air conditioned. Sophie sees him and waves. He waves back. They go to sit down, and Sam goes down heavy without meaning to, letting out a little grunt. He puts his crutches beside him.

 

Dean leans forward to grab Car Monthly or something off of the little coffee table. "She give you her number yet?" he asks, leaning back, peering at Sophie from over the top of the magazine.

 

"W-what?" Sam follows Dean's line of sight. Sophie? How ridiculous. He doesn’t mean it in a mean way. _It’s not her, it’s him._ Like all the cliche soap opera breakups. "It's not like that," he defends, blushing. "She's a good friend. Plus she wouldn't--she wouldn't w-want me."

 

Dean's face drops and goes dark, and now that Sam can recognize the hollow guilt in Dean's eyes, he hates seeing it all the damn time. Dean rolls up the magazine and hits him with it. It doesn't hurt at all. "She doesn't know what she's missin'," Dean says, his tone light but his face anything but.

 

Sam wants to take that look off of Dean's face. "Plus, she's a cat person, and I'm a dog person. We're probably not compatible."

 

"She's probably a Gemini," Dean snickers, eager to steer them into safer waters, unrolling his magazine. The pages are all bent and crumpled and Sam wants to fix them.

 

He laughs along instead and keeps his hands to himself. "Don't bully Sophie," he says, wondering if she can hear them.

 

They talk about nothing for about half an hour. Dean complains about Ford cars and counts back to the last time Baby got an oil change. Sam listens to him ramble and interjects a few times solely to tease Dean and make him get all huffy. The stupid, brotherly battle distracts Dean from all his worries, and the feeling of normalcy comforts both of them like a familiar blanket, warm and soft.

 

Dean's in the middle of telling a sex joke when Dr. Walton appears through a set of swinging double doors, her heels clicking on the linoleum floors. She smiles at both of them, and Dean smiles back, his eyes turning right back to Sam's. "So the woman says, 'yeah, like a Christmas Tree. Dead from the root up and the balls are just for decoration.'"

 

Sam snorts and looks up at Dr. Walton, apologizing for Dean's behavior with his gaze. Dr. Walton rolls her eyes, a smile fighting for dominance over her features and winning. "Good to see you again, Dean," she says.

 

Sam stands and Dean follows suit, shaking her hand while Sam puts the magazine back, pressing down the cover. He grabs his crutches. Dr. Walton gestures for them to follow her, but it's a just a formality. They could both make their way to her office blindfolded by now.

 

Inside, Dean lets Sam take the huge comfy chair and grabs one from himself from the back wall of the office. It's one of the waiting room ones, puke-colored and practically cushionless. Sam feels bad for him, but not enough to trade. Dean would never have that, anyway. Not with Sam's leg.

 

And the other one’s jiggling again.

 

"Sam," Dr. Walton says, drawing his attention back to the present. He didn't used to have such trouble focusing. He is trying to work on it. "I thought you were doing well in sessions and decided to bring Dean in for a special appointment."

 

Sam already knows this. He bobs his head. "W-what are we gonna talk about?"

 

Dr. Walton shrugs, leaning back. Her hands rest on the edge of her desk and her scrutiny is just a little bit too stifling for Sam. "Anything, really. Anything either of you two want to cover. This is going to be more casual than usual. As you know, Sam, you'll only have to come once a month after this."

 

"Yeah." He's got mixed feelings about that.

 

Dean clears his throat. "What about you, then?" he asks. "You just gonna act as referee?"

 

Dr. Walton grins. "Isn't that my job?"

 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, but usually, referees aren't given armchairs," Dean says, waving her off, and Sam finds it interesting to see them actually interact. Usually, on the way in or out of his sessions, they just give each other a perfunctory nod or a small greeting, nothing more. But Sam knows Dean has spoken to Dr. Walton. He talked about it once before. He knows Dean respects her, and vice versa.

 

Dr. Walton shakes her head. "Dean, I think we should work on your prejudice toward therapists," she says, smiling.

 

"Is that really what you want to focus this appointment on, shrinky-dink? 'Cause I'll talk about it for an hour. Just to get my money's worth. And to piss you off."

 

"Enough," Sam finally says. "You two are like middle schoolers."

 

Dean's eyebrows shoot up. "She started it."

 

Sam laughs. "You're only proving my point, dude."

 

Dean's eyes narrow. "Shaddup."

 

"I think Sam's probably right," Dr. Walton says. "We're veering a little off topic. Sam, why don't you start?"

 

"Oh, um." Sam frowns, wiggling backward into a more comfortable position. "I mean, things are good. Dean got a new tattoo a couple of days ago, I really like it."

 

Dr. Walton turns to his brother. "What is it, if you don't mind me asking?"

 

"Not at all," Dean says easily, shrugging out of his jacket. He rolls up the sleeve on his t-shirt to show a bright and thickly-lined new tattoo on his upper arm, still red around the edges. He turns sideways to give her a better view.

 

There are two lines of text in Times New Roman, one on top of the other and separated by a thin line. The top reads "1979," and the bottom "1983."

 

"Our birth years," Dean explains, smoothing his sleeve back down. "Wanted to get something special to mark how much progress we've made, that sort of thing."

 

Sam looks down at his lap, his cheeks burning red. He wants to shake and tremble in his seat like an excited dog, his butt moving side to side with all of his happiness. If he had a tail, he'd wag it.

 

He can't help it. Knowing that Dean, in some way, has a piece of him tattooed permanently into his skin... it's sort of an addicting feeling. Sam shivers at the idea of getting a tattoo himself, at the skilled hands of his brother. The image of Dean permanently etching something onto his body is an appealing one.

 

"I like it," Dr. Walton tells Dean.

 

"I do, too," Sam says, trading a secret little glance with Dean. "I want to get the same one."

 

"Oh, god, really?" Dean groans, throwing his head into his hands. "Sam, that would be the second matching tattoo we have. That's like, married level right there."

 

Sam doesn't say how much that idea actually appeals to him. He shrugs instead, his ears hot. "It's just a nice idea," he says lamely, unable to draw up a better explanation.

 

"You two are incredibly close," Dr. Walton observes. "I'm glad to see that coming back. You both weren't faring well while separated."

 

Sam can feel Dean get uncomfortable. He doesn’t even have to look at him. Dean's always been shit at talking about the real things. He can say a million things with a simple action, show how he feels in a silent language that Sam understands with ease. But talking... not his strong suit. And Dr. Walton's thrown him right into his discomfort zone, and Sam can tell she's aware what she's done.

 

"Well... yeah," Dean says, after a pause. "Sam was scared to reach out, I was beatin' myself up... but not anymore, right? We're good. We're close."

 

Sam can't watch Dean suffer any longer. "It took us a long time to adjust," he adds, "but I think we're both getting a better handle on our lives like this, you know? And I'm getting better, too."

 

"And while I'm happy for you," Dr. Walton says slowly, and oh god, Sam knows he's not gonna like what comes next, not with that look on her face. "Have you two ever considered that your closeness may not always be the best thing for you?"

 

Sam doesn’t even respond, just looks at Dean. Dean is sitting on the very edge of his seat, stiff, spine stiff as a board, leaning forward and glaring at Dr. Walton like she's a demon he's interrogating. It's strange to see Dean's usual expressions in a new context, and Sam sort of instinctively perks up, paying attention, at the ready for one of Dean's signals. Even as his leg throbs, reminding him of the truth.

 

"Excuse me?" Dean growls. "It was when I was fucking ignoring Sam that we were both having a shit motherfucking time. When he came to me and we talked, a little more each day, it got better. Because we were close, damn it! I wouldn't have been able to survive this without him, or with anyone else! Not even Dad! Just two days ago we talked about our old life. We're settling down, we ain't going back. Not ever. It hurts a lot and I got a lot of habits to drop, and a fuckload more to pick up, and I'm a damn fish out of water, but... it's for Sam. And we both wanted this, right? Him with Jess and me with Lisa. Now we've got it. Sorta. How is that bad? How is our life bad?"

 

Dean stops, gasping for breath. His face is red and his veins are beginning to stand out. His eyes flash. He slumps backward into the chair. Sam thought it was going to collapse by the creaking noises it made. He’s proud of Dean. He knows it was difficult for him to get all of that out.

 

A silence fills the moments after Dean's ranting speech. Sam can't really get a read on it. He knows Dean's upset--that's a given. But what about Dr. Walton? Is she offended? Angry? Was it a bait to get Dean to release pent-up shit like that? It seems a little underhanded for the gentle Kate Walton, but it's not impossible, either. Just implausible. Hey. He's glad he remembers that word.

 

More seconds pass and it's becoming apparent to Sam that neither of them are quite really to begin speaking again. So it's up to him. "Uh," he says, shrinking back when two pairs of bright eyes turn to him, "bad guys have used our bond against us. It's closer than most brothers, yeah. But I don't think that makes it bad. Why did you even say that?"

 

He stares at Dr. Walton and folds his hands in his lap, waiting.

 

Dr. Walton sighs, scrubbing a hand down her face. Her tired eyes flick between the two of them. "I just meant that Sam is quickly learning how to become independent. In your previous line of work, you lived in each other's pockets, right? This is different. Dean has to work. Sam will work someday. You'll get your own houses, your own spouses and families. You will not be able to function properly if this codependency remains. And my utmost concern is Sam's function."

 

Sam's eyes widen. It's logical. All those things seem like obvious, natural steps in a progression, but... it also seems so silly. So _absurd_. He actually can't imagine himself living with anyone besides Dean anymore. Even after Brady and Louis and Jessica at Stanford. He just can't. He doesn’t think he’d ever even want to, either. Too much of him is wrapped up in Dean.

 

"I don't think we're quite there yet," Dean eventually says, his voice quiet and stilted. He's staring down at his lap. Sam tries to catch his attention to read him but fails. It only amps his concern up further. "With spouse stuff, or whatever. And sure as hell not kids. I don't think either of us can even take care of a cactus."

 

Dr. Walton seems to legitimately consider it, a finger and thumb on her chin.

 

"We're not raising a cactus," Dean grumps. Dr. Walton raises her hands in concession.

 

"I still gotta lean on him," Dean croaks, and he sounds so vulnerable that Sam wants to curl up in his lap and throw a blanket over them so no one else can see Dean so open. "And he's gotta lean on me. So don't bother trying to push us apart or nothin'."

 

"I wasn't planning on it," Dr. Walton says, trying to keep it light but spectacularly failing. Sam can see the cogs working in her eyes. "Sam wouldn't be where he is without you. It was simply a topic I thought would be better brought up now than later. You two will have to form relationships outside of one another."

 

"I don't think I can do that yet," Sam interjects, frowning. He can tell she's heading toward a larger point and doesn't want her to get any ideas. "Friends are fine, like Jefferey and Sophie... but beyond that, I can't even imagine it. Dean's right. I am leaning on him. And I don't w-wanna stop. If I did... it would f-feel... bad," he finishes lamely. He hadn't liked the slow push of her brows toward each other, the increasingly wrinkly forehead she sported the longer he spoke. The stress made his brain clock out. He has a slight headache building.

 

Dr. Walton's eyes go from narrowed to huge, like a pair of cat's eyes right before pouncing. She looks between Sam and Dean and back again, her mouth falling open. _What is she seeing?_ Sam wants to scream. What layers is she pulling back? What is she seeing in them? He feels exposed, indecent. The urge to cover up both of them resurfaces. Dr. Walton is exposing them. He's never felt this uncomfortable about it before, in all of his many sessions.

 

"I want to help Sam apply for a part-time job here in town," she says, her usually crisp voice falling slightly. She shuffles some papers on her desk, staring holes in the sheets. "I think it's a good start toward reintegrating him into society."

 

Sam and Dean share a look, quirked eyebrows mirrored. Sam shrugs.

 

"Okay..." Dean says slowly. "What did you have in mind? And it better be near our block or a bus stop. He's not going anywhere far on that leg. And especially not when it rains, which is a fuckin' lot."

 

"I have three places in mind," she says, regaining her composure. "There's a local branch of the district library on the corner of 9th and Liberty, where you live. I thought it would suit Sam. There's also a coffee shop on Liberty, Ol' Cuppa. And a bar across further down 9th."

 

"You mean the pub?" Dean asks. "I've gone there before. Sam Pub."

 

Sam laughs. "I never knew that was what it was called. I've never walked that way."

 

Dean beams. "That was what led me to it in the first place," he says. "Good hustl-uh, good atmosphere in there."

 

Sam grins back. "I want to work at Sam's," he tells Dr. Walton.

 

She scribbles something down. "You'd just be a helping hand, a bus boy," she says, "you wouldn't need to interact with customers. It's not my first choice, but... I think it will work for you."

 

"Okay," Sam nods. "So when do I start?"

 

"I'll be the one to contact them, to draw up papers and do all the boring stuff," Dr. Walton smiles. "And then we'll have a session. I'll tell you a week in advance before you start. It won't be immediately. I know the owner there. He's a good man."

 

Sam nods again, and feels phantom hairs shake and fall into his face. He resists the urge to push them back. "I have been getting a bit bored. Maybe I'll get to break up a bar fight."

 

"Not a chance," Dean says, but his eyes are crinkly and happy.

 

"That seems like a good enough place to end this session," Dr. Walton says, shoving papers into a manila folder. "You're probably both more than happy to head on home. We've covered a lot of ground. Thank you, gentlemen."

 

Sam doesn't get up at first, watching Dr. Walton move around. She doesn't usually cut meetings short like this. He's still hung up on the strange, revelatory look that had overtaken her face after they talked about spouses and kids and houses and things. It seems apparent by her lack of coordination that she is, too.

 

Dean's already back in his jacket and by the door. "Sam, c'mon." He jerks a head toward the exit.

 

Sam gathers up his crutches and stands. Dean disappears out the door. Sam makes to follow him, smiling thinly at Dr. Walton as he goes.

 

"Sam, wait," she says, her voice low and urgent, her arm snaking out to grab at his sleeve. He stops, turning to face her.

 

"I didn't mean to put either of you on the spot," she says, frowning. "And Sam, listen... if you ever can't come to Dean about something, if you ever have feelings that you don't know how to deal with... please come to me. Call me anytime. No charge. Just among friends." She smiles in such a forced manner that Sam wants to laugh.

 

He's frozen in place, his brain slowly churning over what she said. Feelings? Confusion? It's as if she knows something about him that he doesn't. He doesn't have any time to ask about it.

 

It's fucking frustrating.

 

"Okay," he agrees instead, sliding the scrap of paper she hands him into his pocket, most likely bearing her cellphone number. "Thank you."

 

Dean pops his head back through the door and Sam walks over, making a talking gesture with his hand. Dean understands, and one of his hands slides low on Sam's back to help guide him through the door, and Sam relaxes back into his skin with a sigh. He hadn't even noticed how tense he'd been until Dean's hands were on him.

 

And, all at once, like a ten-thousand pound brick right to the face, the cogs finally shift and fall into their proper places and Sam knows exactly what Dr. Walton was talking about.

  
_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the incest... is coming... i promise...


	11. XI. One month later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam starts his job and has a little crisis. Dean is his steady backbone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the most inattentive person in the world... my amazing artist, Siriala, created art of the pub, called Sam Pub, not O'Sam's like I had originally written. It's since been changed. 
> 
> Also, I'm sorry this chapter is a day late! I didn't finish it until well into the night yesterday, and thought it was too late to post. So here it is now! :)

As much as Sam really wants to have a crisis over how his heart warms when Dean's around and follows after him, leaving Sam's chest to reach out to his brother, he really does have other things to worry about.

 

He worries about worrying about things. He plans things he can't possibly plan for, imagines worst-case scenarios for absolutely everything and anything that could happen in a pub. He wears holes in the carpet from pacing, tries to write down an entry in his therapy journal but his hand shakes too much.

 

He gives himself a headache.

 

A real mother of a one. It makes his unrequited brother-crush fade out of his mind. It makes everything else turn into a blurry mess of throbbing pain. God. He puts his head in his hands and topples over, squeezing his eyes shut tight and wincing.

 

That's how Dean finds him when he gets off work. Sam can hear him enter Sam's bedroom with a whistle and then stop mid-tune when he sees Sam curled up in bed, arms curled up in front of his face like he's defending himself from the whole world.

 

It's not that far off.

 

"Dude," Dean says softly, and the bed dips down when Dean sits at his side. A warm hand falls onto his shoulder and he leans into it, relaxing his arms and peeking up at Dean through the breaks between his fingers.

 

"This isn't w-what it looks like," he squeaks.

 

Dean quirks a smile. "So you aren't freaking out right now?"

 

Sam groans. He drops his hands, reveals his face. "I was freaking out earlier, n-n-now I've just got a migraine."

 

Dean clicks his tongue. "I'll get Tylenol and some soup going."

 

"You don't have to do that." Sam sits up, blinking against the sunlight that assaults him like a punch right behind his eyes. Dean stands and closes the curtains. Sam watches him leave the room. 

 

He sighs. His first day on the job is tomorrow and he's started his week off with a bang. Great.

 

He gets up, wobbling on his feet for a second as his vision gets all grey and grainy. He leans against his nightstand until he gets back in semi-decent shape. He grabs his crutches and his warmest hoodie and heads out after Dean, flopping onto the couch. 

 

Dean's over in the little kitchen nook, and he's got a pot on the stove. 

 

"Seriously, I'm okay," Sam says, flushing with pleasure at being babied. Anyone under Dean's care would feel the same. Dean is an amazing mother hen when he's not being too overbearing about it. If Sam had his way, they'd lounge around like potatoes all day, but he knows that would drive Dean crazy.

 

Plus, it wouldn't help him get any better, either.

 

"Relax, it's just ramen," Dean says, waving a dismissive hand in Sam's direction, turning the stove on. "I'm not makin' you Dad's famous chili or nothing. This'll help your head just fine."

 

While the water boils, Dean reaches into a cabinet and rifles through Sam's medications until he finds the bottle of pain meds. He shakes out three and pours Sam a glass of water. Sam stands up to take it from Dean but Dean makes a warning sound with his mouth and walks over, sitting on the couch next to Sam and turning on the T.V.

 

"I know for a fact your knee is bothering you," Dean murmurs, looking at the screen, "so don't get up just 'cause you don't like being coddled."

 

"I just don't like feeling useless," Sam sighs, "It feels like you do everything."

 

Dean watches him out of the corner of his eye. "That's bullshit," he says, "you're not useless. You never will be. You do physical therapy, speech therapy, you fuckin' study languages in your spare time..." Dean trails off. "I know it’s different, but don't sell short what you do."

 

Sam's throat is a little full and he's kind of blown away by Dean's brusque wisdom, his rough but kind demeanor. "Thank you," he whispers, but Dean just waves him off again, clearing his throat and changing the subject. Sam knows a  _ you're welcome _ when he hears one.

 

A couple of minutes later, they're both sitting with heaping bowls of ramen and Sam feels warm all over. Dean's smushed against his side and the ramen is piping hot. He stretches his legs out, ignoring the dull pang in his right leg. His headache has faded to a dull throb, and he yawns.

 

He checks the clock. He knows Dean has another client in thirty minutes or so. He gets up, putting his bowl in the sink. "Shouldn't you be going?" he asks. Dean stands up, knees cracking, and hands Sam his bowl. Sam takes it and stacks the two. He starts washing them out. The repetitive action centers him a little bit more. He leans against the sink and watches Dean grab his coat and keys. 

 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Be back before dinner," Dean calls as he heads out the door.

 

Sam walks around the apartment sans crutches for half an hour before collapsing back on his bed. His journal still lies on his nightstand, so he reaches over and grabs it, grabbing the pen from out between the pages.

 

He flips to a blank page and smoothens out the sheet. He puts the pen between his teeth and frowns, glaring down at the quiet little empty lines staring back up at him.

 

He takes the pen back in his hand and clicks it. He feels like a teenager with a diary, kicking his legs up in the air as he doodles about crushes and drama.

 

Except one of his legs doesn't like kicking much, so he lays them flat on the mattress, and the only drama in his life is whether it's alright to put fruit on a pizza or not (Dean thinks no).

 

Sam presses the pen tip to the paper and breathes out.

 

_ I think I'm in love with Dean,  _ he writes, and god, is that a weight off of his chest.

 

_ I've kind of always known it, he continues, but having him here all the time makes it more ~~obviu~~ apparent to me. _

 

His handwriting looks like a middle schooler's, but the whole point of this is to improve his dexterity. He never quits easily. 

 

_ I'm scared about being away from him for a long time, but my first shift at Sam’s is only four hours long. I'm sure I'll see him in the pub sometime. I just wish I could be braver. Even before, I wasn't brave enough to tell Dean about stuff like this. About liking him. But maybe I should. _

 

No. That's a stupid idea. 

 

_ He does so much for me. I want to do something for him. Maybe I'll work on the Impala or cook for him something. I could try making a steak. Jefferey cooks for his boyfriend, I could ask him for advice at the next appointment. Or something. I dunno. This could be dumb. _

 

_ I wish it wasn't so confusing. _

  
  


\---

 

Sam awakes to a feeling of pressure.

 

At first, he thinks it's his knee acting up, but no, the feeling isn't centered there. It's pressed all along his back, even on his ass, and in a line on his waist. And it's overly warm. He's kind of sweaty, really. He tries to shift, and--oh.

 

He's got a big brother spooning him.

 

He relaxes and springs into wakefulness at the same time. His brain feels all addled and soupy like he's had a long nap. The longer he thinks about it, the more it seems likely. All he remembers is writing in his journal which...  _ shit _ . Did Dean see it? Did he read it?

 

He cranes his neck to look over at the nightstand. His journal lies on the edge of it, pen on top, his crutches leaning against the drawers. He looks down at himself. Boxers and t-shirt. Pants and hoodie tossed onto the ground.

 

He reaches behind him to see if Dean's also down to boxers and a shirt. It wouldn't surprise him if Dean stumbled home and took the time to tuck Sam in, but didn't do the same for himself.

 

He's got a hand on Dean's hip (free of pants, he notes) when Dean grumbles with a voice laced with thick sleep. "Stop gropin' me," he says, but he doesn't move away.

 

Sam takes his hand off, cheeks flushing. "Sorry," he says, "you're hot."

 

Fuck, that's not how he meant to say it. "You're making me sweaty," he adds after Dean's silence makes him twitchy. "M'burning up."

 

Dean groans and removes his arm from around Sam's waist. Even as Sam sits up and gulps a big breath of fresh air, he feels the loss deep in his gut. As much as he'd like to stay wrapped up in Dean, he has to get up and face the day. He can tell by the light coming in through the windows that it's probably past seven in the morning.

 

Oh, fucking _ hell _ . They both slept through his alarm. He's going to be fucking late for work on his first damn day.

 

"I'm going to be late!" He squawks, grabbing his pillow out from under Dean and slapping him with it. "Get up!"

 

Dean hauls himself upright, his hair sticking up in a bunch of different directions. He rubs at his eyes, squinting at the bedside clock. "Where's the damn fire, Sam? You don't start 'til five."

 

"I want to talk to Dr. Walton first," Sam says, limping across the room and digging through the dresser for his nicest pair of jeans. "She's the one talking with the Office of Disability Employment Policy people and everything, she's basically doing all the work. I want to thank her for finding jobs for me and also maybe freak out some more."

 

Dean laughs. "You pre-plan even your social calls. Cute."

 

Sam gives him the finger while he snags the least-ratty looking t-shirt from the drawer.

 

He gets dressed while Dean putters about in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and running a hand through his hair. He shoves Dean out when he goes to get himself ready, and Dean punches him in the arm as he's forcefully evicted from the bathroom. A few minutes later, Sam can smell bacon wafting through the apartment. He didn't even know they'd had any.

 

While they eat, Dean kicks him in the shin, jerking him out of his thoughts. "Seriously, dude, don't worry about it so much," he says, looking kindly over at Sam. "You've been in like, a billion fuckin' pubs. You know the drill. Easy peasy."

 

Sam sighs. "You're right. I just--I feel like I've been apart from everything for so long that I won't remember how to act. Logically, I know I've g-got nothing to worry about, but my brain doesn't buy it."

 

"You've always been like that," Dean says, and his voice has a bit of a distant quality to it. "But then when it comes to the real fight, you're calm, you're reliable, you're in the moment. You've got this dude, seriously. Just a pub. Washing dishes. You'll be bored out of your mind in ten minutes, tops."

 

Sam grins. "You always know exactly what to say," he says, "maybe you should be a therapist, not a tattoo artist."

 

Dean scoffs. He kicks Sam again. "Don't insult me."

 

Sam laughs.

 

\---

 

The phone call with Dr. Walton pretty much reiterates what Dean had said. Everyone in Sam's life has the unwavering conviction that he'll be fine. Dean says Roy and Anna are rooting for him, too. Even though he doesn't know them as well as Dean does (and he ignores the ping of jealousy that results from near-strangers knowing his brother), it helps knowing that they have confidence in him. 

 

His job is a five minute drive on good days, a little bit longer when there's traffic. Today is a good day. Dean's parked in a spot right outside of the entrance of Sam Pub. Sam still thinks it’s a funny name. They're thirty minutes early. Sam stares up at the weathered stone facade of the building. It's two-level, like a real pub, dining on top and bar on the bottom. A black awning stretches over the bar portion of the pub. A chalkboard out front has the specials scrawled in uppercase handwriting. The Sam logo has four-leaf clovers and curled dragons on either side.

 

It's pretty charming. Sam has been in a few piss-poor excuses for pubs in his life. The 'States version of a pub has more to do with tourists and revenue than legitimacy, so most of them are just dolled up fast food joints. But this place looks like it can hold its own. It looks well-owned and well-loved in a way Sam can't really describe. 

 

He has nothing to be worried about. It doesn't stop him from worrying.

 

"You ready to go?" Dean asks, turning down the music.

 

"We're still early," Sam says.

 

Dean slaps him on the back. "C'mon, Sammy. I'll be right down the block."

 

Sam sighs, long and juddery. "I'll text you," he says, opening the door of the Impala.

 

Dean pats him on the back again before pulling his hand away. "I'll text you back," he says, and then Sam is out of the car.

 

He stands on the curb and watches the car pull away. When Dean's out of sight, he turns and stares up at the building, sizing it up. He can do this. It's past time. 

 

He walks in. The atmosphere is low but inviting, with the kind of music Dean loves playing lightly in the background. The place is mostly full, and the susurrus of dozens of conversations happening at once runs over Sam like a song from his childhood. The lighting is dim and just right, and Sam weaves past tables of people with dark beer bottles and big burgers, his crutches clicking quietly in his ears. 

 

He makes his way to the bar and a man in his thirties looks up from drying a mug. He's got short blond hair and eyes like Dean's, complete with crow's feet. He smiles, calming Sam's nerves. "What can I get you?"

 

"Oh, no," Sam says, shaking his head. "I, uh, I'm here for a job? I'm Sam Lo-"

 

"Sam!" the man exclaims, throwing down his towel and coming around the bar to stand face-to-face with Sam. Before he knows it, he's being crushed in a hug with a man the size of... well, him, before the accident. 

 

Unsure of what to do, he awkwardly hugs back, patting the dude on his back. The man unwraps himself from Sam and shakes his head, chuckling. "Sorry," he says, still grinning, "it's just that I've heard a lot about you from Katie. She says you're a good kid. I'm glad to have you here, Sam."

 

"You know Dr. Walton well?" he asks, curiosity piqued.

 

"Well?" he cackles. "I dated her daughter for six years."

 

"Oh!" Sam can't stop a small giggle from escaping his mouth. He wants to know the story behind that relationship.

 

"We can talk more later, but for right now, I'll have Angela show you where everything is," the dude says, and Sam realizes he doesn't actually know his name. It somehow hasn't come up at all yet. He doesn't even know if this guy is the owner of Sam Pub, or just a bartender. He thinks maybe he should ask.

 

"But, uh. Sorry, but what's your name?" Sam asks, raising his voice over a spontaneous din of laughter from one of the tables. 

 

The man slaps himself on the temple. "Got all ahead of myself, didn't I?" he says. "I'm Tom James, proud owner of the one and only Sam Pub. We'll talk during your break, eh? I can give you blackmail stuff about Katie."

 

Sam smiles, feeling more relaxed than he has in the past two days. "Thank you," he says, and Tom just shakes his head and calls over a short young woman with neat rows of dark braids covering her head. She walks over, eyeing Sam curiously, an eyebrow raised. Her lips are painted a bright purple and Sam can already tell by the brightness in her eyes that they'll get along.

 

"Angela, this is Sam," Tom introduces, gesturing back and forth. "He's our new bus boy, the one I mentioned. Show him around, yeah?"

 

"Yes, sir," Angela says, rolling her eyes. She reaches out and takes Sam's hand in a firm handshake, covering one of his hands with both of her's. "I'm Angie," she says, grinning, "I promise this place isn't as scary as it looks." 

 

She gives him a grand tour of all three levels of the place, including each and every closet, bathroom, and stairwell. They have an elevator bay, thank god. Sam's not sure if he'll ever need to go upstairs, but it's good to know he won't have to tough it out on a rickety staircase.

 

She introduces him to each member of staff, and he's surprised at how few people work here. A few bartenders, a few cooks, and Tom. Each one gives him a warm, friendly greeting, and Sam gets the feeling that this place operates like a family. He's not quite sure where he'll fit into it.

 

When they've circled back around, she leads them back into the kitchen. "This is where you'll earn your keep," she says, gesturing around to the room. It looks like every other kitchen Sam has snuck into to murder something. 

 

He nods. "Thanks."

 

She eyes his crutches and her smile tilts down a little. "Will you need any help?" she asks.

 

He ducks his head and shakes it. "I think I've got it," he says.

 

"I'm sorry," she fumbles, her hands playing with the edge of her apron, and Sam feels bad for her. She looks as though she's killed his puppy. "I heard you're here on disability, and I didn't know if-"

 

"It's okay," he buts in, smiling at her. "It's nice of you to ask, but it's mostly my one leg that gives me trouble. If I need help, I'll come to you."

 

She looks relieved. "We'll come up with a discrete bird call for emergencies."

 

Sam laughs. "Choose wisely. I can mimic fifteen different kinds of birds."

 

Angie's eyes widen and she throws her head back in a cackle. "I think I'm going to like you," she says, and Sam is thankful he's made a friend.

 

\---

 

In the end, Dean is completely right. The kitchen is stuffy and small, and Sam only ever has to wash mugs or glasses, so he’s stuck doing the same thing for four hours. It is mind-numbingly boring. The only good things that come of it are his brief breaks with Angie and Tom, and how much thinking time he’s given. Being surrounded by the familiar scents and sounds of a pub let him relax and the thoughtless tasks he has to do allow his mind to wander. 

 

Before he knows it, he hears two familiar voices echoing down the hall. Through the kitchen door comes Angie and Dean, and Sam doesn't even have to look to know Dean's laying it on thick.

 

Angie comes over and gives Sam a patient smile. He knows the feeling. "Ride's here," she says, and Dean's cheesy smile stays in place as Sam waves at him.

 

"Sorry about my brother," Sam says to Angie, "he's a handful."

 

Dean protests.

 

"It's alright," Angie says, looking between them, "my girlfriend could definitely kick his ass."

 

Sam thinks he’s going to love Angie.

 

After he gives all of his farewells, Sam is surprised to see the sky black and dotted with stars, the streetlights and the moon giving everything a dreamlike glow. He'd known he'd been working for four hours, but seeing the evidence of it is still strange. The time had flown by.

 

"So," Dean says as they drive back home, "how was it?"

 

Sam yawns, stretching out his feet. "It was actually really good," he tells Dean, "Angie and Tom are really good people."

 

Dean hums in agreement. "I thought so, too."

 

Sam narrows his eyes. "You only talked to them to scope them out, didn't you." 

 

"Hey!" Dean puts a hand up, the other on the wheel as he turns into the parking garage. "Had to make sure baby bro was surrounded by people I could trust."

 

Sam wants to make a snarky comment about that, but instead he just flushes in pleasure, his grin going up to his ears. He feels silly for ever being worried about today--even if it had gone wrong somehow, Dean would've had his back, and he always will.

 

No matter what life they lead, that's the truth, and nothing makes Sam feel more solid or safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any advice/comments/anything on this is appreciated, thank you so much for reading this <3


	12. XII. One and a half months later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean begin to adjust to their new lives, but Sam slips and shatters their new-found normalcy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's on time, how surprising! :)
> 
> So, a year after Sam's accident is April 2008. 1980 does have the same calendar year as 2008, and I actually have the muscle car calendar in this chapter. Weird.

Sam develops a routine. 

 

His meetings with Dr. Walton and with Jefferey get spaced further and further apart, and while he's glad he's made progress, he misses them. He's come to know both of them so well, and they have become stable rocks of safety in his strange life. He still has a lot of trouble recalling memories and words and bits of information, and his emotions pretty much dictate how well he can speak at any given time, but he's made leagues of progress. He can hardly remember being bed-laden and almost one-hundred pounds, unable to think or walk or talk. 

 

It's kind of terrifying to think about his past.

 

So he likes to think about the present. He isn't the only one getting better each day, either. Dean has more or less settled into his life at home and at the shop, taking to it a lot easier than Sam could've imagined. He has vague, blurry memories of begging Dean to settle down and Dean refusing staunchy, always ending in an argument that they pretend never happened a day later. He can sort of remember how scared Dean's face looked when faced with a future he couldn't predict.

 

And yet, here they are. Unpredicted future right up in their faces. And Dean isn't going on long drives in Baby or looking out windows with an empty expression, lost in thought. He's not going through their arsenal and cleaning every gun over and over. He's not doing any of the things Sam feared he would.

 

He's _ adjusting _ . 

 

The biggest stride he's made has to do with the apartment. Sam knows for a fact that while he was comatose, Dean never decorated. Bed, kitchen table, couch, television. Nothing else. A Spartan household. All of their personal objects stayed in the car, and Sam's things were carefully kept in the trunk. 

 

It wasn't much better when he was learning how to be a person again, when they both treaded lightly each other. Eventually plates found their way into kitchen cabinets and the bathroom had a plunger, but beyond that, the house looked like a model. Completely un-lived in.

 

Recently, though, Dean has been sneaking shit in and Sam has been noticing. A photo of them and Mom and Dad propped up on Dean's bedside table. Dean's favorite sawed-off mounted above the couch. A stupid purple rug on Sam's bedroom floor that he secretly loves. 

 

The evidence is all around him. He sits up in bed and looks down at the bedspread Dean got him as a gag gift, covered in puppies rolling around and playing. His clothes are in the dresser and the closet. 

 

And so are Dean's. Dean may have a bed in another room, and some personal artifacts, but he spends more of his nights with Sam than not, either curled up on his side of the bed or spooning Sam from behind like he thinks another broken railing is magically going to appear next to the bed and Sam will get pushed again.

 

Sam doesn't mind, though. He doesn't mind at all. He sort of hates how much he loves when Dean's all pressed up against him, their bodies touching everywhere they can. It feels a little like he's taking advantage of Dean's weakness. Dean's just scared to leave him alone, he gets that. And here he is, perving out about it. Geez. 

 

Still, today is one of those days where Dean went to sleep in his own bed, and Sam has a little moment to himself, which invetiably means overthinking absolutely everything to death. 

 

He just can't believe they actually did it. They settled down and didn't end up eating gunmetal or a few too many sleeping pills. They're not crawling up the walls. Sam remembers the first time Dean called Bobby after a few months of radio silence. Bobby hadn't been on speaker, but Sam could hear him just fine, the volume of his worry almost breaking the phone speakers. Bobby made Dean promise to call regularly, and so far, Dean's been keeping up with his promise. Sam's still too nervous to talk to Bobby himself. He thinks Bobby will be able to hear a difference in his voice and treat him differently. Dean says he's overreacting. 

 

Maybe someday he'll pick up the phone himself.

 

Sam slips into a new pair of clothes and does a few stretches, being extra careful with his achy leg. He passes by the calendar on his wall, and pauses, staring at the picture of the 1970 Camaro. It’s a 1980 calendar they found wedged in the back of the trunk, and all the dates match the current year. The car’s lime green. Something about the date is significant, but he can't quite place it. He narrows his eyes and glares at the little boxes of numbers, hoping that if he stares long enough, they'll give up their secrets.

 

It's not anyone's birthday. It's getting warmer again, which is nice, especially in Michigan, but--

 

Oh. 

 

He woke up around a year ago today. He can bet good money that Dean knows the exact date.

 

Jesus.

 

A good, solid chunk of that time he spent living with around-the-clock assistance, Dean helping him change clothes and shower and piss. He'd stutter and slur over words and forget what he was doing mid-action.

 

He shakes his head and keeps moving, snagging his crutches as he goes. Dean still isn't up yet. He turns on the T.V. to have some company and decides to make some breakfast. He knows that Dean will be on edge once he realizes the significance of the date, and his brother deserves a little pick-me-up after the crap he's been through. They both don't have work until later, so he's in no rush.

 

He settles on pancakes. He grabs the box out of a cabinet and squints at the instructions on the side. Just add milk. Shouldn't be so hard.

 

He gets out all of his materials and pours some wobbly circles of batter into pans on the stove. He remembers having seen Dean put butter in the pan first so they don't stick. It only takes a few minutes for a pleasant little aroma to begin wafting throughout the apartment.

 

While the pancakes do their thing, Sam goes around and opens the blinds, letting in some of the morning light. His leg twinges a little but he ignores it. When he doesn't have any more things he can do to make himself busy, he leans against the archway between the living room and the kitchen, crossing his arms loosely over his chest.

 

He closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of breakfast cooking. He wonders what he and Dean will do today. He knows there's a park a few blocks down. Maybe he can convince Dean to go for a walk.

 

"Dude, flip the damn pancakes."

 

Sam's eyes shoot open. Dean's standing in the hallway right outside his bedroom door, still in only his boxers and  _ good lord _ . Sam looks away, flushing, and hurries back to the stove, opening a drawer and sifting through things until he finds the spatula. 

 

He flips the pancakes and doesn't make a mess of things. Golden brown. Dean must have a god damn sixth sense when it comes to his favorite foods. 

 

"Thanks," he says, and Dean grunts out something that could possibly be English. He slumps down into a chair at their little table, rubbing at his eyes, still bare-chested. Sam tries not to notice. He's only human, and Dean is only fucking Adonis. A beautiful, short, freckly, pudgy Adonis. Who may or may not have the last vestiges of morning wood.

 

Sam times the pancakes the second time and turns off the stove. He puts them onto plates and sets them on the table. He makes Dean some black coffee and gets some milk for himself. He gets out the syrup so Dean can drown his pancakes in it, the monster. 

 

Dean yawns and takes a bite, his eyes widening as he chews. He leans back, making an orgasmic noise that makes Sam's toes curl. 

 

"This is really good, Sammy, damn," he says, his mouth crammed full of pancake debris.

 

"You're welcome," Sam says, and starts eating. Dean kicks him under the table.

 

Sam makes sure to watch Dean's expressions as stealthily as he can. Dean doesn't seem to be in a funk or moody or upset or anything, which is good. Maybe the pancakes helped. Maybe Dean doesn't think it's a big deal that it's Sam's Sleeping Beauty anniversary. He doesn't know.

 

When they finish eating, he gets up to clean up their mess and it's just his luck that he lands on his right leg wrong somehow, aggravating his knee. A blinding shot of bright white pain shoots up through his leg and he gasps, his eyes slamming shut. He braces both hands against the table and pants like he's just finished a workout. The pain zings and zings and zings, like hitting a funny bone but indescribably worse. He wonders why the doctors didn't bother to get rid of the tiny needles stabbing at the inside of his knee. 

 

"Sammy?" Dean says, and Sam hears Dean's chair fall over. Dean's hand is low on his back, gentle, a barely-there touch, like Dean's afraid to break him. "Sammy, is it your leg?"

 

Sam's teeth are too gritted to let out a single syllable, so he settles on a halting nod instead, and Dean swears. 

 

Before he can get a better grip on the pain, he's being lifted into the air, and one of Dean's arms is under his knees and at his back. The pressure is taken off of his bad leg and he's being carried over to the couch.

 

"You didn't have to do that," he gasps as he's set down, settling into the cushions beneath him. 

 

Dean curls up behind him, pulling Sam's head into his lap. "Don't care," Dean says, and his voice is strained. "Don't like seein' you hurt after what happened."

 

Sam can read into Dean's tone and he hears the exhaustion and the fear. Dean is definitely aware of the date, and was probably hiding how it was affecting him for Sam's sake. By the shaking hands running through his hair, he can tell it's rattling Dean up pretty badly.

 

"Dean... it's okay," he says, swallowing thickly, looking up at Dean, whose face is set and hard, staring out the window. Dean's jaw ticks. "I'm better, you know?"

 

Dean finally looks down at him, and he sighs, the rigid emotion on his face going soft. "I know," he murmurs, and pulls his hands out of Sam's hair. "I just..." Dean clears his throat and blinks, unable to continue.

 

Sam sits up and faces Dean. His knee still throbs and he moves it carefully. Dean watches with a shuttered expression. "I get it," Sam tells him, "I really do, but I'm okay, I promise."

 

"Sure." Dean doesn't sound convinced. "How is your leg?"

 

"Still hurts a little, but it's manageable. I must've landed on it wrong and hit a nerve or something."

 

"But it's better now?" Dean worries a lip between his teeth and Sam catches himself staring.

 

"Definitely." He looks away. Dean reaches over and ruffles his hair. Sam squawks and hurries to right the mess Dean has made of his hair. He still doesn't have much, but it's definitely entering moppish territory. He just has to make sure Dean doesn't slip any Nair into his shampoo.

 

"Okay, okay," Dean says, sounding significantly less wrecked. Sam stands up and wobbles precariously, shifting to balance mostly on his good foot. Dean's eyes widen and he scrambles into the kitchen to retrieve Sam's crutches. 

 

Sam takes them gratefully and starts walking around to test his leg. A little sensitive, but definitely not as painful. He's okay. Dean hovers around behind him like a socially awkward bee after pollen. 

 

"Dean, I'm fine," Sam says, grinning. "Seriously."

 

"You sure you can go to work?" Dean worries, wearing a hole through the rug as he paces in front of the T.V. "Maybe we should take today off, to celebrate or something--"

 

"It's fine," Sam interrupts, "we can do something after work, I promise. But I'm okay, really."

 

Dean stares at him for several beats, searching for something. He looks away, nodding, his eyes clouded over in thought. "Okay," he says, "but if something comes up, you call me."

 

"Of course," Sam agrees, never one to poke a protective mama bear. "First thing I'll do is call you."

 

"Good." Dean's cheeks go pink as he seems to realize he's been acting a little over the top. Dean clears his throat, puffing out his chest a little. "Glad we got that all sorted out."

 

Sam chuckles, shaking his head, and he wonders how his pupils aren't changing into heart shapes with all the affection for Dean flowing through his body. He can understand Dean's worry, especially on today of all days, and especially with how guilty Dean feels about neglecting Sam during those early months.

 

And maybe it's a little selfish, but it also feels good to be the object of someone's concerns, to feel wanted and loved and thought about. If one good thing has come from his fall, it's that Dean's a little more open with his emotions and touches. 

 

Sam eats them up whenever he can.

 

\---

 

Sam's been scraping cheese sauce out of bowls for a couple minutes when Angie comes pushing through the double doors to the kitchen,  and they swing wildly behind her as she marches over to Sam. 

 

He puts down the washcloth and bowl and turns to face her. He told her about his leg issue when he came to work and she'd brought a stool over to the sink where he spent most of his time, which he was immensely grateful for. Spending hours on his feet was not fun, even if he stayed in one place.

 

He hops off the stool and washes his hands. Her silent stare is digging into the back of his neck, but she's expecting him to cave and ask her what the fuck is going on, which means he absolutely can't. Two can play at this game. He leans against the counter and stares back, quirking an eyebrow. Angie quirks hers higher.

 

Fuck it, he’s too curious and nosey for his own good. He throws his hands up. "Is there a silent fire happening s-somewhere that I need to attend to?"

 

Angie rolls her eyes. "No, but your fuckwad brother's up at the bar getting pretty smashed. I thought you might want to talk to him."

 

Sam perks up. "Dean's here?" Getting drunk? 

 

Angie nods her head. "Yeah. C'mon, you big nerd. Maybe you can convince him to swap over to soda."

 

Sam grabs his crutches and follows after her. They slip behind the bar and it's not hard to find Dean. He's perched on a stool front and center, leaning against the counter and downing a glass of whiskey. 

 

When Dean sees him coming, he raises his head and beams, his facial muscles somehow looking uncoordinated and drunk all on their own. "Heyyyyy, Sammmy," Dean crows, his eyes crinkling up. "How goes the rat race?"

 

Angie pats him on the back and leaves to serve a customer at the far end of the bar. "Dean?" Sam leans forward to be heard over the voices and music. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at work right now?"

 

Dean waves him off. "Client finished early. Thought I'd start celebrating early, too."

 

Sam sags. "Dean, getting shitfaced isn't exactly celebrating. Plus, how are we g-gonna get home?"

 

Dean glares. "I c'n drive, asshat."

 

Sam's lips thin and he rolls his eyes. "Yeah."

 

Dean raps his glass against the bar. "Think you can get me some more, Samson?"

 

"No," Sam frowns.

 

Angie comes back over, her eyes flicking between the two of them. "You got this, Sam?" she asks. 

 

"Not sure," Sam says, "he must've had a lot. It's hard for him to get this drunk."

 

"Here, Layla's got the place covered." Angie unties her apron and tucks it under the bar. "Why don't we get him back to the car? You can drive, right?"

 

Sam opens his mouth to respond but pauses, thinking through the options. No, he can't really drive, but if he says so, Angie will offer to take him. And even a drunk Dean would go homicidal at the sight of someone else driving his car. A cab wouldn't work, either--if Dean woke up at home with the Impala still back on the curb, he'd probably pass out. Fuck.

 

"Yeah," Sam finally answers, "it's just a little hard, but I've got it."

 

There's a question in Angie's eyes but she doesn't ask. "Alright, then," she smiles, "help me drag this lug outside, will you?"

 

They move through throngs of people until they've reached Dean, who turns to look at them with a lazy smile. Angie urges him off of the stool, and Sam gets his arm around Dean. Dean is just coordinated enough to walk by himself, and he bats the two of them away. He doesn't walk toward the exit though, instead makes a beeline to where Layla is serving someone else.

 

"Uh, nope," Angie grunts, and gets an arm around Dean's waist to steer him away. "C'mon dude, you're past your limit."

 

"Dean, please," Sam adds, turning on the puppy eyes. "We were supposed to celebrate."

 

Dean throws his head back and groans. "Ugh, god, you stubborn bastards, fine. But only 'cause I've got bourbon in the kitchen."

 

Angie chuckles. "Good enough for me," she says, and they get to herding Dean outside again.

 

\---

 

Sam stands outside the passenger door. Dean's behind it, fiddling with the shoebox of cassettes. "You sure Tom won't mind?" he asks again, his brows bunching together. "I haven't been working here long, I don't wanna-"

 

"Sam. It'll be fine." Angie pats him on the back. "I'll tell Tom what's going on. Someone in the kitchen can cover your shift. Get that guy back home for me, okay?"

 

Sam leans back against the car. "Okay," he says, and Angie gives him one of her patented thousand watt smiles. 

 

She turns and leaves, disappearing quickly inside of Sam Pub. It's near sunset, and the dull, purple-pink glow of the horizon lights up the chrome accents of the Impala, make her look sleek and beautiful. Sam's driven her loads of times, but this is so, so, so different.

 

He gets behind the wheel and breathes in and out, plucking the key out of Dean's fingers and starting the car. He shifts over and puts his left foot on the brake, keeping his right leg bent at the knee, out of trouble.

 

The drive is less than five minutes, but Sam spends each of them hyperventilating and hyper aware. He goes slightly below the speed limit, keeping an eye out for cops. He brakes jerkily, the car slamming forward and making Dean mutter under his breath, but other than that, they have no issues, and make it into the parking structure safely. 

 

Parking's another issue, but he doesn't think Dean's gonna castrate him for being a little crooked. 

 

Once they're inside the apartment, Sam breathes out the breath he was holding and collapses onto the couch, content to lie there bonelessly for as long as it takes for his brain to downshift from freakout mode. 

 

From his slouched over position, he watches Dean weave and wander into the kitchen, humming "Smoke on the Water" under his breath. He bends down, pulling an amber bottle out of a lower cabinet from behind boxes of macaroni and cheese.

 

"Dean, c'mon, no," Sam sighs, floundering until he's sitting up a little straighter. "I don't want you to be hungover tomorrow."

 

"Too late," Dean chirps, but he puts the bottle back. He plops onto the couch beside Sam, throwing an arm around him. 

 

Sam freezes up, acutely smelling the booze on Dean's breath. 

 

"Say something," Dean murmurs, his voice gruff and authoritative. "Tell me a memory."

 

Sam takes a moment to find his words, caught by surprise by Dean's request. "Um..." he licks his lips, searching for something that would satisfy Dean. "Do you remember when I came back from soccer practice and found Dad with Mr. Floppy? And Dad said I was too old for stuffed animals?"

 

Dean laughs, his breath ghosting against Sam's ear. "I remember that ratty old dog," Dean says. "A lady in the same housing projects as us gave him to you. You brought that thing everywhere."

 

"Well, I begged and begged Dad not to get rid of him, but Dad didn't listen. All he did was throw him away though, Dean. So I fished him out and hid him in my duffel while Dad was asleep."

 

"How did I never know about that?" Dean asks, his arm curling tighter around Sam, pressing him close. "I swear I woulda known about something like that."

 

"Because I was too scared to keep him," Sam says, "I thought Dad would find out. So I gave him to Pastor Jim."

 

"Oh, man," Dean's voice is lost in memories. "I wonder where he is now."

 

"Hopefully with another kid," Sam says. "All of Pastor Jim's stuff was sold in an estate sale, including Mr. Floppy."

 

"I miss Pastor Jim," Dean says quietly. "He always snuck you an extra cookie."

 

Sam smiles, but it's weighed down with the melancholy quality of the childhood memories he wades through. Each one he can remember in full is a treasure. "I miss him too."

 

Dean sighs, leaning against Sam. Sam's content to let the silence wash over him, to let Dean's body heat warm him up. The room turns a dusky blue as the sun sinks further below the horizon, the flashing light of the T.V. turning the room a myriad of muted colors, one after another.

 

Dean shifts and turns, pressing his nose against the top of Sam's head, the hand curled around Sam rubbing up and down on his arm. "Can't believe you're okay," Dean husks, his voice crackly and rough. He squeezes Sam. "God."

 

Sam moves around in Dean's embrace to face his brother and his shining red eyes. "Well, I am," Sam says, "everything's okay, Dean. Seriously. You're a little messed up, you should get to bed."

 

Dean reaches out and cups Sam's jaw, his thumb running over Sam's cheek. Sam's heart rackets around in his chest and he can't take a breath, his eyes hooked on Dean's like a physical tie is holding them together.

 

Dean's eyes are soft and half lidded in the low light. The callouses on his fingers rub against Sam's skin. "I take care of you, but you take care of me," Dean says, tripping over the words only slightly. "Thank you, Sammy."

 

Sam doesn't know what takes over him in that moment, but with Dean holding him there and looking at him like he's the whole fucking sky and the earth and everything, he can hardly control himself. He wants to preserve the way Dean's face looks.

 

He leans forward and tilts his head, connecting his lips with Dean and tasting the whiskey in his brother's mouth. He closes his lips over Dean's bottom lip and sucks lightly, pulse humming in his ears. He can't stop himself. 

 

He pulls back after Dean's lips stayed frozen under his, looking at Dean's eyes and swallowing. Dean's face is unreadable, neutral, his pupils blown.

 

They breathe the same air, less than an inch apart, the T.V. filling the silence with dull chatter that neither of them can hear.

 

The hand at Sam's jaw moves to the base of his neck, Dean's other hand cupping the other side of Sam's face as he pulls Sam toward him. Sam falls into Dean's lap and his face gets pressed against Dean's, Dean panting as he opens his mouth and slides his tongue past Sam's lips, kissing him deeply.

 

Sam's entire body is overheated, and he can feel each point where Dean's skin touches him as if it burns him. Dean's fingers dig into the base of his neck, and the hand at his cheek gently pushes Sam this way and that, tilting Sam to ensure their lips meet in the best possible way, and god, Dean's lips are so soft.

 

Dean's got one leg between Sam's, and Sam is leaning over Dean's lap, curling his arms around Dean's neck and closing his eyes and giving himself wholly over to the kiss. 

 

He's been lost in it for awhile now, content to drown, when Dean's hand slips from his neck to his collarbone, lightly pushing him away. Dean's lips are red and shiny and Sam has to force his eyes upward to meet Dean's. 

 

Dean blinks slowly. "I'm... I'm drunk, I shouldn't be doing this," he fumbles, turning his face away from Sam and licking his lips. They bow slightly in a minute frown.

 

"Oh. Um." Sam scoots backward and falls back onto the couch. He doesn't know what Dean means. Did Dean make a mistake in kissing Sam, or does he want to be sober for it? Is he just too drunk to coordinate anything?

 

"I should go to bed," Dean says.

 

Sam nods along, tamping down every single one of his emotions. "Yeah, let's get you to bed."

 

He helps Dean down the hallway, pausing at his bedroom door, but Dean shrugs him off and moves further down the hall to his own room, slipping inside and closing the door behind him. Sam tries not to overthink it.

 

He does Dean's usual nightly routine and closes the blinds. He turns the T.V. off, locks the front door, and makes sure everything is more or less in its right place. When he's finished, he runs a hand through his hair and goes to his room, lying awake for hours staring at the ceiling before sleep finally claims him.

 

\---

 

Dean is ignoring Sam.

 

Sam can feel it like a knife sliding into his stomach, his blood pooling at his feet.

 

He just doesn't know what to do about it.

 

He knows one thing for certain: he doesn't want this to be something they pretend never happened. He doesn't want Dean to get over it and act like normal again, the moment carefully swept away with the rest of the shards of Sam's heart.

 

He remembers the look in Dean's meadow green eyes. He remembers the feel of Dean's lips pressing against his, Dean's hands carefully running over his body. He remembers the heat.

 

He doesn't want that to be forgotten.

 

It's a Saturday, and neither of them have work today. Dean looks like he belongs somewhere else and was transplanted here, completely at odds with his surroundings and sticking out like a sore thumb. He drinks glasses of water and alternates between disappearing inside his room and watching T.V.

 

_ At least he hasn't left _ , Sam tells himself.

 

Sam puts a mat down in the corner of the living room and brings over some weights, doing some basic stretches and exercises as an excuse to keep an eye on Dean. When Dean grabs his keys from the kitchen counter, Sam puts down his dumbbell. "Dean," he calls out.

 

Dean turns to face him, any emotion carefully masked. His eyes are still a little red, but if he’s hungover, he’s hiding it well. Typical Dean behavior. His lips are pursed. "Yeah?" Zero inflection.

 

It cracks something within Sam. "Dean, please, we should talk about this," he begs, "we both remember. I don't want to pretend it never happened."

 

Dean scoffs. "But we really fucking should, Sammy," he says, staring at the ground, his fingers curling into fists.

 

"No, c'mon," Sam's voice is weak as he steps closer to Dean. "We have to talk about it. You-"

 

"There's nothing to talk about," Dean snaps. "I was drunk, Sam, it was a mistake, I was fucking drunk. That's it."

 

"But I wasn't," Sam gasps, and shit, his eyes are getting blurry. "I wasn't, Dean."

 

Dean shakes his head. He's smiling, but his eyes aren't. His eyes are flashing. "No, Sam, this was my fault, and it shouldn't have happened. I mean I--I practically molested my own damn brother. I'm not dealing with this, okay? I'll be back for dinner."

 

Dean opens the door. Sam steps forward to meet him, but he doesn't have his crutches. He can't follow. "Dean, wait, please."

 

Dean shuts the door behind him and Sam closes his mouth, blinking away tears.

  
This is all his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for leaving it where I did, but I couldn't resist. Any comments of any sort are really appreciated, thank you so much for reading <3


	13. XIII. Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean talk about things. Sam tries to woo Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried something new with a split perspective chapter, I think it was necessary for this part of the story. Hope you like.

_ Dean _

 

Dean can't get Sam's handwriting out of his head.

 

He's never had an amazing visual memory, not like his Dad or Sam. But now all that floats through his mind are the carefully scripted letters in Sam's journals, forming words Dean shouldn't have read. Private words, for Sam's eyes only, for healing.

 

God, Dean is such a pile of shit.

 

He'd come home, calling out for Sam, and had gotten no response. He went into Sam's room and saw Sam lying on his stomach, drooling onto a journal being held open by his face. There was something about Sammy sleeping that always made Dean's heart melt into a gushy, gooey mess.

 

He'd tucked Sam in properly and picked up the journal, fully intending just to set it on the nightstand. 

 

That was before he saw his name at the top of the page.

 

It all went downhill from there. His eyes read the line without asking him, translating the characters with ease: _ I think I'm in love with Dean. _

 

He read a few more lines before he got a grip on himself and closed the book, setting it down, heart pounding. Sam made an open, hurt little noise in his sleep and Dean didn't think, just pulled back the comforter and slid in behind him, being careful not to jostle him.

 

His mind worked and worked and worked, thinking itself into endless, repetitive loops. He made the decision to confess to Sam about his fuck-up.

 

His decision was swiftly sidetracked by a horrible damn date on a calendar, a shitload of alcohol, and Sam's bleeding heart. Then he was kissing Sam. Then his brain was catching up.

 

And here he is now, sitting in the Impala in a dark, concrete parking lot, staring at the wall. 

 

Staring at the wall and seeing Sam's confession write across his pupils.

 

Shit.

 

Dean slams his fist on the steering wheel and closes his eyes, biting back a groan.

 

Just when he'd gotten Sam back, he'd gone and fucked everything straight to shit. As is the Dean Winchester way.

 

If there's one thing he hates, though, it's inaction. He has to do something even if his stomach churns with guilt, more familiar than whiskey. He jams his keys into the ignition and leaves the garage. 

 

_ "But I wasn't," _ Sam's broken voice rings in his ears. " _ I wasn't, Dean. _ "

 

He turns around and pulls back into the garage. He sits in his parking space for several minutes and leaves again. He drives around the block, cruising past Spinning Spirits and the district library and Sam Pub and the apartment and Spinning Spirits again.

 

On his third circuit, Anna is waiting on the curb in front of the tattoo shop, hands on her hips. 

 

Dean meets her stormy gaze and parks on the curb. She's walking toward the car as he's hauling himself out of it. 

 

"Can your car only turn left or something?" She asks, leaning against her Pontiac, parked in front of Baby.

 

Dean settles on the hood of his car across from her. "Something like that," he sighs.

 

"Dean." Anna's voice has gone into a strange mix of motherly and authoritative that he didn't associate with his easygoing, childless friend. "Tell me what's up."

 

Dean bites the inside of his cheek, watching the traffic go by to save himself from the sharp judgement of Anna's eyes. He feels like she'll get one look into him and know it all, shaking her head and condemning him.

 

More of him feels like he's going to drown if he doesn't tell someone.

 

"It's Sam," he says, slumping against the car and feeling the cool, black metal against his back.

 

Anna scoffs. "Well, I get that much," she says, "that boy's the only thing that gets you to emote. Hell knows I tried."

 

Dean winces. "Anna."

 

She waves him away, piercings glinting in the early light. "Didn't mean anything by it," she says, "keep talking."

 

"I... I hurt him," he mumbles, face going hot. He doesn't know how to frame all of this. "He confessed something to me and I flipped and bolted."

 

Anna crosses her arms loosely across her chest, raising an eyebrow. "Go back."

 

Dean purses his lips as he squints at her. "What, not gonna ask any more questions? Have a deep, emotional talk? Just 'go back'?"

 

Anna shrugs, hiding a smile. "I don't need to fuckin' hear more," she says, and her eyes are dangerously knowing. "He was open with you, and you left him. Go back."

 

"Go back," Dean echoes, swallowing past a lump in his throat.

 

Anna nods, wind pushing her bangs across her face. She swipes them away. "Go back."

 

Dean pushes off the car, right into Anna's arms. He gives her a brief, rough hug, slapping her on the back before pulling back, wishing he'd had more time to hide the shine of his eyes. "Well, uh, thanks," he manages, looking over her shoulder.

 

Anna laughs and pushes him away. "Go back to that boy," she says, "don't waste any more time on me."

 

She turns and walks back toward the shop without another word. At the door, she turns, raising a hand in a solemn salute. Dean mimics the gesture, and she grins faintly before disappearing inside. 

 

Dean hops back inside his car, fires up the music, and makes the minute drive back into the parking structure. It’s not even close to enough time to help him get his head on straight, but he keeps moving anyway, all the way up to the door of his home.

 

 

 

_ Sam _

 

Sam stands at the door, frowning at its white wood finish. His crutches dig into his elbows, but he's used to it. He glares some more. Maybe he just has to wait a bit and the trip will become less daunting. 

 

Sam had called Dean once and Dean didn't answer his phone. Sam has no idea where Dean's gone, but he could be as close as the tattoo shop, and Sam can walk there with no problem. If he's at Sam Pub or the park or Dr. Walton's, though, he's gonna have a bit of a fucking problem.

 

The lock clicks and turns and Sam starts, backing up. The door opens a fraction and Dean meets his eyes, freezing.

 

They reach a bit of an impasse. Sam breaks the moment several beats later. "You're loitering in the hallway," he blurts, backing up some more. 

 

Dean takes the hint and unfreezes himself, moving into the apartment like a robot with rusty joints. He shuts the door behind him and turns to face Sam, his hands crammed in his pockets.

 

They stare some more.

 

This is Sam's day off. He doesn't want to tire his legs if he doesn't have to. He lopes over to the couch and plops down on it, sighing and turning the T.V. on.

 

Dean hovers, his uncertainty palpable. Sam doesn't even fucking care. Dean came back. That's all that matters. Dean came back to him.

 

Dean sits after an eon of awkward hanging around, a little gap of space between him and Sam and Sam does his best to ignore it. 

 

"I read your journal," Dean says quietly, and Sam's face goes hot. "Only a few lines, but. They said a lot. I didn't mean to. Sorry."

 

"It's... okay," Sam says, testing how the words feel on his tongue. "How long have you known?"

 

Dean glances him out of the corner of his eye for the briefest of seconds before turning back to the screen. "Only around a month," Dean says, and his voice conveys just how shit he feels about that, and Sam can't help but sympathize. 

 

Sam stays silent.

 

"You fell asleep on it and I picked it up and I couldn't stop myself from reading some," Dean explains, "I was going to tell you, and then I was chickenshit, and then it was fucking April and all I could think about was a year ago. And then-"

 

"I kissed you," Sam finishes for him, in a whisper.

 

Dean huffs. "I kissed you," he says, "not the other way around."

 

"I kissed you, then you kissed me more," Sam points out, "I've got the clearer memory of the event."

 

Dean looks like a pouting child. "Whatever," he grumps.

 

A chuckle spills out of Sam. Dean watches him with thinly veiled rumpled emotions. "You said earlier you thought you molested me," Sam says, switching gears back to Shit Country. "You didn't. Everything was consensual, and I think you know that. I think that's what you're freaked out about."

 

Dean turns to him in a flash, his eyes wide and scared and angry, Sam can see it all so easily. "And why the fuck aren't you?" he demands. "Why are you so fucking zen? I've been looking after you since I you were a baby and I have these--these feelings for you, Sam, and I shouldn’t, and I never hid it well enough, it affected you, and now we're both screwed up."

 

"Wait...  _ what _ ?" Sam catches Dean's eye. "You think you somehow infected me with incest? That this is your fault?"

 

Dean rears back like Sam's pissed on their mother's grave. "Don't say that," he growls, but his tone is thready and shaken. Sam knows him too well.

 

"Incest," Sam says, watching Dean flinch. "It was incest."

 

"Sam."

 

"Look, Dean, I know you constantly feel like you've failed me somehow," Sam starts, watching Dean's eyes widen, "but you honestly haven't. You've been the best brother anyone could ever ask for, okay? Sure you've made mistakes. Haven't I? Loads of times? That doesn't make you any worse of a human being."

 

Dean's pale, shifting on the couch. "I--"

 

Sam holds up a hand. Dean's jaw clamps shut. "You didn't make me fall. And you didn't make me fall in love with you. I mean--you did, but just by being you. Not by, uh, tempting me or whatever you think you've done. All you've ever done is try to help me."

 

"Okay, so it was nobody's fault," Dean says, "can we have some lunch now? Shouldn’t you be doing verbal exercises?"

 

Dean gets up and Sam puts a hand on Dean's knee, pushing him back down. Dean's adam's apple goes up and down. "I m-meant what I said earlier," Sam says, "I don't want to pretend this never happened."

 

"And we won't," Dean rushes out, "but I can't--not right now, Sam, please."

 

He sounds like a lost child. Sam's heart aches for him, but that’s sort of Sam’s constant state of being by now. "It's okay to be scared," Sam murmurs, trying to give Dean the comforting look that Dean's given him a million times. "We can talk about this later."

 

Dean's face morphs straight into relieved gratefulness, his features relaxing, his shoulders loosening, and Sam rolls his eyes. "If you still feel bad, then you can make everything up to me by making marshmallow mac n' cheese, you evil temptress. Guaranteed clean slate."

 

Dean stands, his back to Sam, moving toward the kitchen. "One artery-clogging homemade dish, coming up," he says, and Sam smiles. 

 

Dean won't bend easy over this, Sam already knows. And maybe nothing more will ever come of it. Sam can live with that. He just can't live with a torn up older brother who goes nuclear when his emotions are put out into the open.

 

Sam makes it a mission to slowly weasel his way past Dean's defenses.

 

\---

 

Things fall relatively back into place after that.

 

At first, Dean dances around Sam, treating every moment like a tightrope made of glass, but all Sam has to do is tease and taunt Dean about normal, stupid, brotherly shit to make Dean relax back into his skin. Dean has work on Saturday, a consultation and a touch-up. Not much, but enough for him to be out of the house for a couple of hours. 

 

Hours Sam uses to deviously plan. He's honed the skill to an art after years of being a little brother.

 

His fingers are still pretty shot, motor skills-wise, but he only has to look at the sheet music for an hour or so for the sense-memory of the song to come back. He can almost smell Jessica's hair as he slowly plays on an air piano, the simple song forming piece by piece under his arthritic fingers. 

 

His memories of her are incomplete, frayed and cracked like an old sepia photograph, but bits and pieces come back with just a little bit of encouragement. As he recalls the simple notes of the song, he also recalls her flaxen hair under sunlight, the way she tugged on her hair during exam week, the exact location of seven different moles on her body.

 

He shakes himself out of the cobwebs. He won't be doing himself any favors by returning to the old ache of loss and grief, such a heavy, headache weight on his soul. He practices the song on the carpet a few more times before he grabs his coat and his crutches and heads over to Spinning Spirits.

 

Dean doesn't look up when Sam comes in, but Roy waves, walking over. Sam puts a finger to his lips and Roy snickers, nodding in agreement. He backs off, heading back to his station, where he's sketching something that Sam can't quite make out.

 

Sam slips over to the upright piano in the window display. He takes the "Welcome to Hell" sign off of the keys and places it atop the instrument. His back is to the window, and to the street, where throngs of people pass, dozens each minute, but he doesn't care. His focus is Dean.

 

He taps the keys without pressing them down, practicing the song without a single note hitting the air. When he feels confident, he bends his fingers back and forth, begging them to cooperate, and begins to play the only song he knows, courtesy of Jessica Lee Moore, at half speed. 

 

Dean's head shoots up at the first note, and Sam straightens his back to gaze at him over the top of the piano. Dean murmurs something to the woman he's talking to, excusing himself, and scurries over to Sam.

 

"What the hell are you doing?" he says under his breath, slipping into the window display nook next to Sam.

 

"Playing you a song," Sam says, his fingers freezing as he speaks. He starts over.

 

It takes Dean a moment to recognize "You are My Sunshine," the song Sam's music class sang in the fourth grade, but once he does, his face contorts across a thousand different emotions before his muscles relax. He sits down onto the bench next to Sam and Sam puts all of his energy into pressing the ivory keys in the right order.

 

Sam sang this song to Dean a thousand times, driving both him and Dad insane. The music teacher in Ohio had said he had the voice of an angel, and she may have been over exaggerating a bit, Sam now knows. He feels sympathy for Dad and Dean's ears now, he really does.

 

The memory is still sweet, though, and he knows Dean feels the same way. Dean hums along with the song once he's played through it two times. 

 

He risks a tiny glance at Dean while he plays, his fingers tripping only for half a second. Dean's eyes are crinkled up and light, completely lost in the throes of a memory, and Sam grins like a loon. He wishes he could wrap an arm around Dean and up the sap-factor, but his hands are busy.

 

He slows down the song and lets the last note ring through the shop. A tiny chatter of applause goes up, started by Roy and then joined by Anna and the few customers inside the shop.

 

"Didn't know you knew piano," Dean says, just loud enough for Sam to hear, clapping Sam on the back, his hand lingering. 

 

Sam shrugs. “Yeah, well, surprise.”

 

Sam thinks that it's only a matter of time before he wins Dean over. 

 

\--

 

Sam clicks his pen and writes and writes and writes, wishing he could go faster, like he used to, churning out note after note, but he has to be legible.

 

_ Dean's good at getting girls and winning bets and inking people up, but he never gives himself the things he really wants. _

 

_ He wanted to refuse the necklace I gave him because it meant so much to him. When Dad first handed him the keys to the Impala, he gave them right back after fetching dinner, not understanding. It took him a few months to really start calling the car his. _

 

_ He's doing the same thing now, I guess. I know he loves me and I know he cares for me but he keeps backing up, giving me space, even though we both hate it.  _

 

_ Maybe it'll only take a few days, like with my necklace, or longer, I don't know, but I'm positive one day he'll realize that he's being an idiot and the only person I can ever dream of being with is him. I told Dr. Walton the same thing, even if I didn't get it at the time. _

 

_ Maybe if he knew I fell for him when I was fourteen, maybe if he remembered that he taught me how to kiss, he might stop beating himself up over something that's just us. Can't think of any other words to describe it. _

 

He leaves his journal on Dean's bed and goes back to his room, pretending to sleep. Dean comes in from work thirty minutes later, and Sam hears his boots stop outside Sam's door and read the note there.

 

_ Work was fine. Tired. Night. _

 

Sam hears the scrape of the sticky coming off of the door and then Dean is gone again. 

 

Sam almost falls asleep waiting for Dean to do something. He feels like a teenager, but he thinks his journal is more meaningful than talking with Dean face-to-face. Dean doesn't have to put up any barriers when he's reading alone in the safety of his room.

 

Dean does come back, though, making Sam's drooping eyelids wake right back up. He's a dark silhouette in the doorframe, his shadow spilling onto Sam's bed. He's got the journal in one hand, but the bookmark Sam so pointedly inserted between its pages is gone, Dean's thumb marking the spot instead. 

 

Dean sets it on the nightstand. Sam sits up, all pretext of sleep gone in a moment. Dean comes and sits next to him and Sam knows not to speak, lest he shatter the moment. It's something unspeakable, undefinable, but ringing deep in his chest, and he's not surprised when Dean cups his jaw with careful fingers and kisses him lightly, just barely a brush of skin, before he's gone. Too soon, Sam thinks, but his heart soars all the same.

 

"Give me time," Dean rasps hoarsely, running his hand over Sam's face. Sam's eyes fall shut. "I just need some time. It's new. And it does scare me, Sam. But I. It's always been you n' me, right?"

 

Sam keeps his eyes shut, even as Dean's hand disappears. "Right," he whispers.

 

He has no trouble going to sleep curled against Dean's chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my cat died yesterday. He was my best friend. So I'm really sorry if the writing style seems choppy or distracted, it was just really hard to focus. Writing it was therapeutic, though. Thank you for reading/commenting.


	14. XIV. One month later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets a new tattoo. Sam overworks himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to spoil, but... some of this comes from personal experience. Tried to write Sam's thoughts and the passage of time like I felt them.

Dean opens up about small things, one at a time, and seemingly out of the blue.

 

Not that Sam minds. No, each time Dean clears his throat and his hand stumbles across Sam's is a moment Sam willingly would have given his life to experience, before.

 

Now he has them. He's left in the dust, just a bit, clamming up at times when he knows Dean is waiting to hear something in response.

 

He learns that Dean is terrified of doing taxes. That for some reason, the idea of slotting back into society with their new identities and histories feels like betrayal to Dean. He feels like they're betraying Dad's nomadic lifestyle, Mom's legacy, their own past lives. And it all manifests in the damn taxes.

 

It is weird, Sam has to admit. They get bills and junk mail and Dean has a slightly respectable credit score. Hell, he even has a credit card that they used their "real" names on, not something like Hector Aframian or D. Hasselhoff. 

 

Sam keeps waiting for some catch, keeps waiting for their identities not to be as secure and fail-safe as claimed, that Victor Henriksen is gonna pop out from around the corner and arrest both of them in their own home, put them in Supermax facilities in separate states. 

 

It never happens. Sam promises Dean that he'll do all the taxes himself. Dean has a driver's license, has gone through the purgatory experience of waiting in line at the DMV, had a doctor tell him his cholesterol was too high. Sam learns about Dean's life while he was comatose one confession at a time, and he feels like he owes Dean one back, but he has no idea how to go about it.

 

His compulsive habits about planning and overthinking things now give him strong headaches. He once took an online math placement test with the vaguest intention of maybe looking into the local community college, but slammed his laptop shut in frustration when the numbers just wouldn't fucking fit together, the story questions not making an iota of sense.

 

He'd stormed out of his bedroom with tears pricking at his eyes, and the more angry he felt about being close to tears, the closer to tears he got, and around and around he went until Dean found him curled up in a closet, hands wrapped around his knees.

 

It wasn't his best moment. Hell, he's had a lot of those happen recently. He thinks it might be the heat fucking with his head. He'd rather have a silly explanation than settle with the fact that his head is a difficult mess, part brain dead and mush. 

 

He's rambling again. God damn it. This always happens when he tries to think about Dean. He wants to follow his brother's advice not to sink into a pit of feeling shit about himself, as Dean so eloquently put it once during a massage that turned Sam's aching joints to jelly, but that's easier said than done.

 

Still. He doesn't have the luxury of planning out some grand gesture for Dean, like Dean deserves. And he needs to get out of his own head right fucking now.

 

He decides to wing it. 

 

He's on the couch now, stretching his right leg and rubbing it at the stiff knee, where the majority of his physical problems lie. He slowly bends and unbends his leg, his weakened calf muscles flexing. He curls his toes and uncurls them. His leg's trembling, but not from pain. He's trying to beat his record for how long he can hold it above the ground before the muscles call it quits.

 

Dean walks in on him like that. Dean's got a white bandage wrapped around his forearm, and Sam perks up, his leg plopping onto the carpet, forgotten. Even the light throbbing can be ignored as he stands up, pointing at Dean's arm. "What's that?"

 

Dean raises his arm and squints at it. "Oh, this old thing? Just a forearm, Sammy, nothing special."

 

"No, you-" Sam rolls his eyes and doesn't bother fighting against his smile. "Y-you got a new tattoo?"

 

"Yep." Dean's trying too hard for nonchalance. He should know already that that shit doesn't fly with Sam.

 

Sam limps to the kitchen and grabs a beer, tossing it to Dean. "What's the tattoo of?"

 

Dean sits down at the kitchen table, stretching his long legs out. "I was just feelin' like there was a tattoo I was missing," Dean deflects, gulping down his beer, throat working. He sets it down on the table, sighing. "Shit. Please tell me we fixed the air conditioning."

 

Sam sits down across from Dean. "Don't you think it'd be on if we did?"

 

"God damn it." Dean flops his head down onto his forearms. "I'm gonna need four hundred more beers."

 

Sam's heart jumps around. He's waiting for a convenient lull in conversation so he can blurt out some secret, pay Dean back for all his open moments. "Alcoholism is overrated, Dean. Just take your shirt off instead."

 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Dean husks, waggling his eyebrows outrageously. To his credit, though, when he finishes his beer, he stays put. 

 

Sam flushes. "Shut up," he mumbles, hoping Dean can't tell just how well he hit Sam's thoughts on the head. He gets up to hide how pink his face is and grabs a beer, but Dean's questioning look is quickly shut down when Sam opens it against the table and takes a sip of it himself.

 

Dean watches the bottle. "I thought you didn't..." he trails off, crossing and uncrossing his legs.

 

Sam shrugs. "I was just kinda afraid," he says. "I mean, at first, I was on a cocktail of meds, so no alcohol, but I was cleared a long time ago. I just thought... I guess I saw myself as a bit of a child, you know? I hated myself. And children don't drink alcohol. It was, it was sort of punishment. But... I'm over that now." Too bad the only beer they have tastes like shit.

 

Dean's face falls, and his eyes do their own version of puppydog. "Sammy..."

 

"It's okay," Sam waves him off, clearing his throat. "Plus, working at a pub meant I was missing out on a whole bunch of free drinks from Tom. Now I'm not."

 

Dean picks up his empty bottle and holds it out. Sam stares for a moment before he gets with the program and clinks the neck of his bottle against Dean's.

 

"To frugality," Dean says as Sam takes a sip. 

 

Sam snorts. "Just buy better beer next time."

 

"Picky, picky, picky, you little snob."

 

"Ugh, bite me. And don't even say it."

 

Dean laughs, and Sam joins in, feeling all the nerves and tension uncoil from his stomach. The pleasant, tiny buzz he's got going isn't hurting things, either.

 

Dean leaves and turns on the radio, putting it on a station that more or less plays his cassette collection. There's a fan in Sam's room and Dean lugs it into the kitchen, letting it rotate around and cool them off, adding to the hum of background noise. 

 

Sam stares across their little home and smiles. Even if he hadn't known it at the time, this was what he was trying to run toward when he'd left for Stanford. Without Dean, though, it would never happen, and after Jess... Well. He thought he'd never get that again. He'd resigned himself to dying bloody until it actually happened to Dean. It's always so much different when it's real. He's always felt a crippling need to keep Dean safe, and after he went to hell, he knew with a grim certainty that he'd failed Dean. They had to get out.

 

"Sam. Sammy. Sammy." Dean snaps his fingers in front of Sam's face and Sam blinks, turning back to Dean. He opens his mouth and slams it shut again when he sees the bandage off of Dean's arm, the tattoo darkly contrasted against healing red skin.

 

Sam can't blink. He can only stare, and his chest puffs in and out erratically as he tries to catch a normal breath, and shit, he's just as big as a fucking sap as Dean always says he is.

 

Dean's no god damn better, though. Dean's the one who tattooed the image of a paper luggage tag on his forearm, with his own handwriting reading "If lost, return to Sam Winchester."

 

"That's..." A little laugh escapes Sam's mouth. "Did you get that for me?"

 

"Well, I, uh." Dean scratches the back of his neck, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah."

 

Sam's out of his chair and in Dean's arms within a second, and he presses his face into Dean's collarbone, closing his eyes. Dean's arms slowly come around and rub his back.

 

"It's pretty stupid, I know," Dean says into Sam's hair, his hands slowing down fractionally. "I just thought it was fitting, y'know? I wanted another tattoo anyway. Anna actually designed it..."

 

Sam pulls back and grins up at Dean's face, practically bouncing up and down with a teenage enthusiasm. "I want the same one," he interrupts, "and I want that one of our birth years n' stuff that's on your upper arm and maybe I'll get one on my back too so we can match." He pauses, winded, leaning back against Dean's firm chest, Dean's scent a safety blanket around him.

 

"Dude, seriously?" Dean pokes him in the side, but it's not meant to injure. "I thought you were joking when you told Kate you wanted another matching tattoo. But all of them? Even by our standards, that's pretty-"

 

"I don't care," Sam sighs, closing his eyes again. "You would look so good with a tattoo sleeve."

 

"Woah, random," Dean says, and Sam can hear the blush in his words. 

 

"Mmm." Sam's beyond the capacity of words, yawning against Dean's chest. 

 

He listens to Dean breathing, to Dean's heartbeat, feeling Dean's warm palms linger at the base of his back. He sways on his feet, leaning more heavily on Dean.

 

"Sammy?" Dean asks, his voice as soft as his touch. "Dude, we haven't even had dinner."

 

Sam doesn't respond. He's stirred fully awake by Dean's gentle arms maneuvering him around until Dean's carrying him like a princess, his head falling against Dean's shoulder.

 

"Thought you got back more weight than this," Dean whispers to himself, and Sam thinks maybe he should tell Dean he's awake.

 

Dean carries him back to his room, setting him down on the bed and pulling back the puppydog covers. Sam blinks and bats Dean's hands away like he's functioning in slow motion.

 

"C'n do it m'self," he mumbles, unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging off his pants. Dean's doing the same, and Sam tries not to look, biting his lip when he sees a cut of Dean's tummy, little hairs curling up at his navel.

 

Dean touches his shoulder and Sam understands Winchester-touch language fluently. He gets in bed and curls on his side, expecting Dean to walk around the bed and gather him up in his arms.

 

He gets in and rests on his side facing Sam instead, and Sam blinks at him, "I love you" in the way of cats, wishing he could purr his contentment.

 

Dean rubs a hand up and down Sam's arm, and Sam's mouth falls open. He leans into the touch. Any time he and Dean are skin-to-skin in any way only fuels his addiction, his need, his desire for his older brother. At times he thinks it should scare him, but Dean fed him baby formula and Dean carried him out a burning house and Dean taught him how to shave and Dean sold his soul for him and really, it isn't all that scary. It's them.

 

Dean leans in, their noses brushing briefly before Dean's hand comes up and tilts Sam's head just a tick to the left, and then his lips are brushing up against Sam's, dry and soft.

 

Sam lets his mouth fall open wider, waking up as his jaw goes lower and lower. Dean kisses him soundly, pulling Sam's bottom lip into his mouth and gently sucking on it.

 

Sam's breath hitches when they pull apart, panting quietly into Dean's mouth, and he rushes forward to be kissing Dean again, fuck, he'd give anything to keep kissing Dean.

 

Dean's hand moves from his jaw to the back of his head, but his hair still isn't quite long enough to serve as a hand hold. It jolts Dean just a little, his fingers bumping across Sam's scar, and he pulls back, his eyes blown.

 

"Don't stop," Sam pleads, whisper-gasping, moving back into Dean's space, but Dean pulls back, dragging Sam's heart out of his chest along with him.

 

Sam sits up, trying not to wail or press himself into Dean's lap. "Dean, what...?"

 

Dean's eyes widen. "Oh, shit no, I didn’t mean-- you have work."

 

Sam frowns. "What?"

 

Dean tilts his head back toward the alarm clock on the nightstand. "It's six-thirty."

 

"Oh, shit!" Sam flails, kicking off the sheets, but he gets tangled in them and falls on the floor, getting up in a huff, running a hand through his mussed hair. "Why did you let me go to sleep, then, you asshole?"

 

"Hey, you forgot, too!" Dean shoots back, hopping on one leg and shoving his foot through his jeans. "Let's not play the blame game."

 

"Let's not play the blame game," Sam mocks under his breath, his voice distorted and falsetto as he fumbles with the buttons on his shirt. Nothing should require this much dexterity, ugh. By the time he gets them all, keeping the top two open, they're both sweating, and Dean's holding up Sam's boots.

 

Sam snags them gratefully and they make a rush for the car, Sam just barely avoiding braining himself when he trips on one of his own shoelaces, still untied. 

 

He's only about ten minutes late and he grovels at Tom's feet, but Tom doesn't even give a shit, squeezing Sam's shoulder and telling him to get the hell to work.

 

Sam waves at Dean before bolting into the kitchen, using the crutches as naturally as if he'd been born with them.

 

He loses himself in his tasks, only coming out of his personal bubble when Angie calls him and asks him if he can help work the bar. Kaylah got sick without warning and they're down a person. Tom's waiting too, his face pinched. 

 

As Sam gets closer, Tom stops him before going behind the bar. "Look, Sam, I know you only came here for bus boy stuff so if you're uncomfortable serving customers, just tell me, alright? I can give you a bonus for helping us out. You know better than anyone that this ain't no tight ship, alright? More like family, boy. Your choice."

 

"It's fine," Sam smiles, and he sees the identical looks of relief on Angie and Tom's faces. "Really, I'm not worried about it. A month ago, maybe I would've been hesit-hesitant, but I'll do it."

 

"Thank you so much," Tom claps him on the back, his hand lingering low on Sam’s back. Sam swallows, slipping behind the bar to get the butterflies in his stomach to stop freaking the fuck out. 

 

He forgets about any discomfort when a rush of customers comes in around seven, and Angie hardly has any time to run him through the basics of pouring drinks. He nods along, keeping track. He's done this job before on a case but his memory of it is pretty much shot. 

 

It ends up being pretty intuitive, and besides a few minor slips, he has no issues. He gets hit on by quite a few customers, girl and guy, and it surprises him. He'd sort of been under the impression he still looked like run-over death, but all the winks and innuendo-laden comments suggest otherwise.

 

By the end of his shift, he's flushed and sweating, his eyes bright with the flurry of activity. He hasn't felt so needed in so long, not in this sense. It feels good to be put to work, to serious work, that makes him wobble on his legs and makes his fingers curl in on themselves. He throws himself into it, might be pushing himself a little, but he doesn't plan on stopping. He even gets called "glowing" by one guy, and well. He glows even more under the praise, even as a tiny part of him feels like he's cheating on Dean by giggling at the compliment.

 

Tom comes to help them out when the place gets packed. Tom rotates around the pub, helping out the kitchen staff and the bar staff in little shifts. His shirt sticks to his body with sweat, his hair slicked back but constantly falling in his face. He catches Sam looking and tosses him a cheeky grin, winking before disappearing through the kitchen doors.

 

Sam looks away, blinking. Maybe the adrenaline and the excitement is getting to his head. He checks his watch. He's only got thirty more minutes on his shift before Dean comes to pick him up.

 

The pace of the work never stops. It reminds Sam of hunting. He pours drink after drink, wiping sweat off of his forehead with a rag. He can feel it drip down his back, making him twitch. He bites his lip red and shiny, moving slower and slower each time he has to go from one end of the bar to the other. 

 

Angie notices immediately, another trait she shares with Dean. 

 

She comes over, grabbing her own rag from her apron and wiping down Sam's face, frowning the whole time. "Hey," she calls over the music, "you sure you're good to keep going? You can stop."

 

"With all these people?" Sam yells back hoarsely, "it's okay, Ang. Thanks."

 

"Okay." She doesn't sound convinced. Tom calls her away and she leaves with one last glance over her shoulder, her brow all scrunched up. Sam gives her a thumbs up and she rolls her eyes, attending to the latest customer.

 

Tom slips behind Angie and stands next to Sam, their shoulders brushing. "You sure you're alright there, son?" Tom asks, looking out across his dominion.

 

"I'm fine." Sam tries to smile in his most reassuring way. 

 

"Well, if you're ever not, just say so." Tom squeezes his shoulder again. It must be a nervous habit of his. "Don't make us worry, you hear? If anything's up, just..."

 

"I know," Sam says, grinning. "You're just as bad as my brother."

 

Tom steps away again, disappearing to who-knows-where, constantly in motion, moving with such ease. Sam's a little jealous. His own leg is inflamed and angry, punishing him for spending so much time moving around on his feet. 

 

He swipes a hand across his forehead, grimacing. He pauses for a moment to step into the cool refuge of the bathroom, washing his hands and stripping out of his sweat-soaked button down, tying it around his waist. 

 

Stepping back out into the mess, he sighs, and shit, did it get ten degrees hotter in here while he was in the bathroom? Even his single t-shirt feels like it's far too many layers, stifling in the clogged, humid atmosphere. 

 

He's never been claustrophobic or particularly socially anxious, but the bar is sure as hell making short work of instilling those qualities in him. He swallows back his fear and gets back to work, hoping that enough of a distraction will help him power through the last of his work. 

 

Luckily enough, the pace of things seems to slow down, if only the tiniest bit. The evening rush is over, and people are leaving into the night, leaving behind the drunkards and the partiers.

 

Okay, he can do this. If he keeps to one end of the bar and lean heavily on his left leg, it should be a breeze. He would murder seven kittens to have a breeze right now. Dear lord. His entire face feels like it's burning, and he's not going to even start on his hands or legs. 

 

The next thing he knows is an annoyingly insistent pressure, all along his back. He can't feel his leg. The world is swimmy and dark, and he blinks and squints, trying to get something, anything in focus. Except heat is a blanket across him and breathing isn't really the simple automatic thing it should be. He takes in a shaking breath, and closes his eyes, giving up on the confusing, painful murk of vision. 

 

He reopens his eyes an indiscernible amount of time later, his head pulsing in time with a distant, foggy thrum of music. Music? Not Dean's. It's too pumped, the bass stabbing Sam right behind the eyes. And he's so fucking hot.

 

He looks up into a face. His mouth is so dry. He coughs, and the face swims into focus, blond strands tucked behind ears. Tom. His name's Tom. His boss. Where he works.

 

Oh, god damn it. He tries to sit up but Tom's practically straddling him and pushes him back down. Tom says something but his voice sounds like it's coming through cotton balls. 

 

"Ice..." he finally makes out. "...need some ice."

 

"Tom," he rasps, closing his eyes. "What h-h-happen'd?"

 

"You with us, Sam?" Tom asks, his hands on Sam's face. Sam looks up at him. "You passed out, kid."

 

"Oh." Sam wets his lips. A moment later, Angie falls into his field of vision, kneeling at his side. She puts an ice pack on his forehead and he sighs. Ice is bliss. Fuck the heat. 

 

Tom pats him on the cheek, his eyes uncharacteristically soft. "You feeling any better?" he asks, and his hand is sort of caressing Sam. He's too tired to process it.

 

"What the hell are you fucking doing?!" a familiar voice roars, and Sam's a little bit more lucid at the sound of Dean's voice. "Get the fuck off of him!"

 

Tom slips off of him and helps him to his feet. He sways like a drunk man, doing a balancing act with his one good leg. Tom loops an arm around his waist to keep him upright, and he mumbles his thanks, sagging against Tom's side.

 

"You get your fucking arms off of him," Dean growls, low in his throat, hardly raising his voice but exuding danger with every bone in his body, his mannerisms screaming predator.

 

Tom swears under his breath and steps away from Sam. Sam would have fallen to the ground if it weren't for Dean swooping forward to catch him, holding him close to his chest. "What the fuck did you do to him?" Dean snaps. "You fucking roofie him?"

 

"What? No!" Tom barks, "Dean, no! He passed out, okay? I was helping him!"

 

The arms around Sam tighten. "Yeah."

 

Angie's voice pipes up. "He's telling the truth, Dean. I think Sam had a heat stroke. It gets pretty rank in here and he was looking a little rough toward the end. I think he wore himself out. We kept telling him he didn't have to work the bar..."

 

"Stupid thickheaded Sammy," Dean huffs, petting Sam's head. "I'm taking him home."

 

"Yeah, of course." Tom's voice is weak. "His shift's over, anyway."

 

"Well, uh... thanks," Dean coughs, and then Sam's being hauled out of Sam Pub, his feet skidding and tripping against the pavement as he tries to find his balance. He can't even open his own damn eyes.

 

"Hey, shh." He hears the groan of the Impala's door opening. Dean folds him into the car. He doesn't know where his crutches have gone.

 

An arm shakes him. "Hey, Sammy. We're home, kiddo. You in there?"

 

Sam opens his eyes, squinting against the parking structure fluorescents, which are apparently trying to scrape his eyes out of his head. "Can't feel my leg," he says. He hears Dean's sharp intake of breath.

 

Dean carries him the rest of the way home and Sam doesn't have the energy to complain. He lets Dean manhandle him and fuss over him, stripping him of his clothes and the apron they accidentally stole. Dean brings the fan back to Sam's room and opens the window. He puts Sam under the sheets, tossing the comforter away from the bed. Sam loses track of time. He drinks some water and swallows some pills.

 

Dean pulls him down and they sleep side-by-side, hardly touching. As he drifts away, he feels Dean's fingers hook around his, Dean's palm pressed against his.

  
He finally gives himself over to the empty bliss of the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only excuse I have for this one being late is that I am a huge mess. Sorry. Thank you all for sticking with me and commenting, it means so much to me.


	15. XV. Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam rests up after his accident. Dean gets a little jealous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm going to move posting dates to Sunday for awhile, I have a lot of other things on my plate right now. I'll try to keep updating, but we're actually a lot further than halfway done now, so it might not be long before things wrap up. It's only the first part in a 'verse, though, so it's not the end :)

When Sam wakes in the morning, he’s feeling considerably less undead. Dean's already up and out of bed and making a ruckus in the kitchen.

 

Sam swings his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing when his right leg throbs. His head feels a little bit cottony, but it's nothing time and Dean's famous breakfast foods won't fix. He notices a pile of clothes on the nightstand, a glass of water, and a bottle of pain meds. He moves at the speed of a sloth, shrugging into his sweater and downing the pills with the cold water. He snags his crutches as he heads into the bathroom. 

 

He splashes his face with water and goes about his daily routine. His hands are practically dead, making the goings slow, and he keeps forgetting things like to wet the toothbrush first or apply deodorant to both arms.

 

He's too tired to yell at his body or his brain, so he just settles into the lethargic routine, coming out to the land of the living to see Dean sitting at the table, reading from an actual newspaper. Sam doesn't know where he even got it from. Probably stole it from the lobby or something. There are two plates out, with bacon and eggs and orange juice and toast. Sam sighs, and Dean folds the newspaper, flopping his head to gaze at Sam upside-down. Sam grins at him.

 

"You feeling better?" Dean asks, his eyes mapping Sam out as Sam sits down across from him and digs in.

 

"Yeah, definitely," Sam says, mouth full of toast. "What day is it?"

 

Dean frowns. "Saturday," he says.

 

Sam takes another bite out of his toast. "So I have work later," he comments, "they probably w-won't put me on the bar again, even though it'll be a busy night. I hope Kaylah's okay."

 

Dean clears his throat. "We'll call you in so you can take the day off," he says, like it's not even a question.

 

"Dean, no," Sam sighs, "it's fine. I'm feeling better. It won't be as bad today."

 

Dean slams down his glass and Sam jumps. "You passed out, Sam," Dean hisses, "you can't keep hurting yourself like that."

 

"I'm not!" Sam snaps. "I've passed out a billion times before, Dean."

 

"You know this is different," Dean says, and his voice is different, is pleading with Sam. "Just be more careful with yourself, I don’t know what I’d do..."

 

Sam softens. "I will, but I can still go to work. It's fine, Dean. Hell, knowing Tom, I'll probably just be folding towels the whole time."

 

Dean glowers for a brief second but nods, even though he doesn't look happy about it. "Just keep your phone on, alright? And call me if something happens,  _ anything _ that you're not comfortable with."

 

The way Dean stresses "anything" puzzles Sam a bit, like there was some other injury last night or something. Something else Sam needs to be aware of. What is it?

 

He shrugs it off. Maybe it's just a part of Dean's overprotective nature. "Not a child, Dean," he says lightly, smiling at his brother. "I'm sure it'll be the most mind-numbing experience of my life. Aside from listening to your jokes, of course."

 

Dean rolls his eyes, but his face splits into a smile matching Sam's. "Shaddup," he says, and the rest of the day goes off without a hitch. 

 

Sam accompanies Dean to Spinning Spirits. Something about the high whine of the tattoo machine is comforting. He watches Dean ink a simple swirl pattern onto a woman's wrist. She's trying valiantly to flirt with Dean, leaning forward to display the open v-neck of her shirt, smiling in that shy, coy, way, and Sam tries not to find immeasurable satisfaction in the fact that Dean doesn't indulge her, just responds as if he's oblivious to her advances.

 

She is gorgeous, and funny, too. Sam thinks that before they got all tangled up in each other, Dean would be laying it on thick, charming her straight out of her panties, but instead, he sits with his arm pressed up against Sam's, talking to Sam, explaining the things he does.

 

Alright, Sam gives up on being a saint. He's super fucking smug. Dean the ladykiller, Dean who has a way with all kinds of people, is Sam's. Just Sam's. 

 

It sends a jolt of heated excitement all the way down to Sam's toes. They make out a lot before bed, but they haven't done anything beyond that, even though Sam can tell Dean wants to. Dean still gets a little freaked out by how he feels, and Sam gets that, but my god, Sam hasn't gotten laid in like, two fucking years. He has wet dreams almost every night of Dean's sure, capable hands roaming across his body, touching him, pressing inside of him.

 

He shivers and when Dean asks if he's okay, he doesn't say anything. 

 

He puts his hands over his lap to cover up the semi. 

 

Work is exactly how he thought it'd be--Tom, Angie, and even Kaylah, who has since heard about last night, baby the shit out of him, bringing him water, a comfy office chair to work from that he can wheel around, and just generally checking up on him. He finds Kaylah is nice; has a low, raspy voice and a dark sense of humor. 

 

Tom lets Sam off of his shift early, still feeling guilty. He's apologized to Sam three separate times, and it's kind of surprising to see the boisterous, energetic man so timid and small. He doesn't blame Tom in the slightest. It was Sam's own oversight that conked him out.

 

Sam pulls his phone out to call Dean and tell him to pick him up early, but Tom lays a hand on his arm. "I really do want to make it up to ya," Tom says, grinning. He's got scruff just like Dean does. "Why don't you have a drink? On me. Until your brother gets here."

 

Sam nods. "That's be nice," he says, and follows Tom out to the bar. They sit at the far end, the vinyl stools squeaking and creaking underneath them. Sam orders a sangria and Tom has a beer. Dean's always teased him for liking things that don't taste like bitter asshole, but Sam's doesn't drink to get drunk like Dean does. Well, usually. So he takes light sips of the sweet drink, listening as Tom tells him about the last time he visited Edinburgh.

 

Sam stays sober, or at least he feels like it, while Tom probably should not be drinking so much on the job. He's had a few beers, and he's a little wobbly, a little giggly, moving around on his stool and cracking up at his own stories. 

 

He is pretty fuckin' funny, had a wild, crazy life of drunken escapades before he settled down in Michigan, of all places. He'd realized that his lifestyle wasn't gonna get him past forty, and that he needed to get serious and get out of his parent's home. So he uprooted his whole life and came here, fumbled around for a few years, but managed to start a thriving business. 

 

"It's weird to think about who I was," Tom mutters, looking out across the bar and smiling. "It was like I was just tempting the shit out of death, you know? Dancing with the devil."

 

Sam laughs. "You have no idea how much I get what you mean, trust me. Dean and I also gave up a dangerous life before we came here. We're doing okay."

 

Tom looks over at him. "I'm worried your brother doesn't fancy me."

 

Sam shakes his head. "He was just being protective. He didn't know the whole story when he came in, he just acted. I'm sure he feels like shit about it."

 

"I don't want him to have a grudge against me," Tom tells him, "if you're my friend, I want him to like me."

 

Sam feels a little warm and tingly at the word friend. "Just give him time," he advises, "he's not the most trusting person in the world, but he'll come around."

 

Tom looks a little better after that. He finishes his beer and pushes the bottle away, tossing down some beers. "That's my limit," he says, clapping Sam on the shoulder. "Thanks for listening to me ramble. And I think your ride's here."

 

Sam checks over his shoulder and sees Dean hovering in the doorway. Sam nods at him and Dean disappears back outside. "Thanks again," Sam says, waving at Tom before he weaves through throngs of people.

 

Dean's quiet on the ride back, and Bob Seger's on low, Dean's comfort music. Sam leans back, closing his eyes, the streetlights making swatches of colors light up the backs of his eyelids. Orange, yellow, red. The car rolls and rides on waves underneath him, and he yawns more and more frequently as they drive up through the parking garage.

 

Dean puts a hand on his chest and Sam opens his eyes and sits up, yawning again.

 

"Welcome home," Dean says before slipping out of the car.

 

It's early, but they're both too tired to do anything more than watch a movie, cuddled up against each other. Sam thinks they might be getting old. Or just getting domestic.

 

"So, how do you feel about Tom?" Dean asks, his arm tightening fractionally around Sam, and there's a slight edge to his voice that he didn't quite manage to hide. 

 

"Tom?" Sam asks, frowning at the T.V. "He's a good friend, why?"

 

There's a pause. "Nothin'," Dean says, "was just curious, s'all."

 

The light bulb bursts to life above Sam's head and he gasps, startling Dean. "You're jealous," he says before he can stop himself. Jealous of Tom? Sure, he's a touchy-feely kinda guy, but he's not... he's older than Sam.

 

Then again, so is Dean.

 

"I'm not jealous," Dean growls.

 

"If he's been interested in me, I never noticed,” Sam says, leaning over to peck a kiss on Dean's cheek. Dean grumbles quietly. "I've been too busy trying to win your hand."

 

Dean rolls his eyes. "What is this, Jane Eyre?"

 

"You've read Jane Eyre?"

 

"Shut up."

 

"Seriously, Dean," Sam says, taking a chance and crawling into Dean's lap, Dean's huge eyes staring up at him, "I don't care about him. I care about you."

 

The kiss is blinding. Sam's head spins as Dean's arms grapple and manhandle him, squeezing his hips and slipping under his shirt to run up his back. Dean's tongue is pure sin, sliding past Sam's, opening Sam's mouth wide so that Dean can practically eat his face.

 

It's the best thing Sam's ever felt, and he doesn't contain his moans, curling his arms around Dean's neck.

 

Dean pulls back and Sam whines, staring down at Dean's shiny lips. Dean licks them with his skilled, pretty tongue. "Sam, wait--"

 

"I want it," Sam whispers, rolling his hips over Dean's clearly hard dick.

 

Dean grunts, shutting his eyes. "God, you're so..." he doesn't finish his sentence, and Sam leans forward and latches his mouth onto Dean's collarbone, sucking a bruise there. Dean's hands are broad and heavy on the swell above his ass, his fingers clenching as Sam kitten-licks Dean's skin.

 

He stops and raises his head, his eyes just inches from Dean's. "Please."

 

Apparently, that's all it takes. Dean curses up a storm and gets his arms under Sam's ass, standing up. Sam squawks and holds on tight, swinging his legs around Dean's waist, keeping a vice-like grip around Dean's neck. He laughs as Dean walks them to the bedroom, his heart beating right out of his chest, but in a good way, in the best way.

 

This is actually happening.

 

Dean tosses back the comforter and leans down over it. "Get off, you koala," he says, smiling. 

 

Sam drops onto the bed and Dean disappears down the hall. He comes back a moment later with a bottle of lube and a condom, but he lingers in the doorway, staring down at Sam and biting his lip.

 

"I've never fooled around with a guy before," Dean says, creeping forward, setting his things on the nightstand. Sam stares at them, his stomach fluttering and dancing.

 

"Have you had anal?" Sam asks, and Dean, ever the open, kinky bastard, looks shocked at Sam's openness.

 

"Obviously," Dean snorts, but his confidence comes up short.

 

"It's just like that, alright? Just c'mere. I'll help."

 

Dean sits on the edge of the mattress and starts unbuttoning his shirt. He freezes halfway, looking over at Sam with narrowed eyes. "Have you done this before?"

 

Sam shrugs.

 

Dean's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. "Wait, really, Sammy? I thought you were straight."

 

"I thought you knew I wasn't!" Sam protested, flushing. "Didn't you see me with Brendan Dwyer in my senior year?"

 

"I--" Dean opens and shuts his mouth like a fish. "You never said anything. I thought you two were studying."

 

Sam raises his fingers into hooked little air quotes. " _ Studying _ ," he says, and Dean groans, putting his head into his hands. 

 

"Plus, y'know, college is... college," Sam says, and okay, now he's actively trying to rile Dean up. It's just too much fun.

 

Dean looks over at him. "I thought your college experience was all libraries and research papers."

 

Sam grins at Dean, all cheshire cat. "And gay orgies," he says, and that's what does it.

 

Dean makes a noise like a feral animal and shoves Sam into the mattress, climbing over him. 

 

"I can't believe you did that... I would've fucking marked you up before you left, told them all to stay away. You're mine, not theirs." Dean leans down and bites Sam's neck, hard enough to draw blood. Sam's cock jumps in his jeans.

 

"You're right," Sam says, looking up at Dean, his words careful and meaningful. "I'm yours, Dean, so do something about it."

 

All the fight goes out of Dean's eyes and turns to pure lust, his green eyes being swallowed by dark pupils. He sits up and starts fighting out of his clothes, fast and fumbling, tossing off shirts and ripping off belts. Sam just lays back and watches, reaching out to brush at Dean's soft tummy, swallowing thickly when Dean slips out of his boxers, his thick cock bouncing between his legs, the tip wet with precome.

 

Sam has seen Dean's dick before. He's snuck peeks, sue him. But never on his fucking chest, never hard and right there, and oh god. Oh god oh god oh god. It's perfect. 

 

"Your turn," Dean husks, tugging at Sam's shirtsleeves.

 

Sam slips out of everything in record time, and Dean helps him wriggle out of his boxers. His cock slaps against his belly and he flushes. The room is cold and he's laid bare for Dean with a hard dick and perked nipples.

 

Dean's eyes don't go angry and possessive or aroused, they soften, and his lips curve into a faint smile as he pets Sam's chest, bumping across Sam's ribs and rubbing at Sam's sides. "Still so fuckin' skinny," he mutters, mostly to himself, but Sam can hear him. "So smooth and slim, Sammy."

 

Sam's cock jumps and Dean chuckles, reaching down and curling a fist around it.

 

Sam gasps, jumping out of his skin and watching Dean's hand, feeling Dean's hand.

 

"So long and pretty," Dean whispers, giving Sam's cock one rough stroke, from base to crown. Sam whines in the back of his throat, tossing his head back onto the pillow and baring his throat. One touch from Dean and he's already so close, so far undone.

 

Dean presses the length of his body against Sam, their dicks rubbing up against each other, and he goes back to licking and sucking on Sam's tongue, quiet, wet noises filling the room.

 

Dean grinds down against him, the friction curling Sam's toes. He pants into Dean's mouth, his hips bucking up but Dean keeps pressing him back down, holding him still. 

 

Dean pulls back, looking Sam in the eyes. Sam can't look away, wouldn't want to.

 

"What do you want, Sammy?" Dean asks, and Sam's still caught up on the whole we're-both-naked-and-pressed-together thing, so he takes a moment to respond.

 

"I want you to fuck me," he whispers, and Dean swallows back a groan. He reaches down and tugs at his own dick roughly, squeezing his base, holding himself off.

 

"'Kay, 'kay, I'll fuck you," Dean says raggedly, and Sam spreads his legs wide.

 

"Oh, christ," Dean groans, petting Sam's little thigh. "Sam, you have no idea how badly I wanna. How badly."

 

"Then do it," Sam says, curling a hand over the tip of his cock and rubbing his palm over the sensitive skin. 

 

Dean nods, reaching up and over to grab the condom and the lube. He sets the condom down by his knee, tapping Sam's leg. "Get these up," he murmurs, his touches lingering. Sam craves every one.

 

He bends his legs at the knee, his hole bared to Dean, and he flushes. He's not shaved, but he's been cleaning himself every day because... Well. Just in case. He shifts a little, uncomfortable with the silence, wanting to put his legs back down.

 

Dean rubs his fingers across the cheek of Sam's ass. "Don't be shy," he says, and shit, his voice has gone all porno, husky and thick. Sam's has a basic idea of how Dean is during sex, 'cause Dean's told him about a lot of his adventures, and he knows Dean is a dirty-talker. 

 

To experience it, though, to have Dean saying this shit to him... he could come right here and now.

 

The snick of the lube bottle opening up brings him back to the present. His right knee, not as bent as the left, is aching like a bitch. He slips it down the bed, and Dean doesn't comment, squeezing his calf. He pours a generous amount of lube on his fingers, dripping onto the bed.

 

He notices Sam looking. "Just bein' safe," Dean says, "I don't wanna hurt you."

 

"Just do it already," Sam says, laying back and staring at the ceiling, trusting Dean.

 

Dean's hand goes from his knee to his thigh to his ass, creeping closer to his hole. He rubs at Sam's skin until it's pink and warm and buzzing, applying the same attention to Sam's rim, massaging and caressing until Sam relaxes, closing his eyes.

 

Dean kneels between Sam's spread thighs and adds more lube to his fingers, rubbing around Sam's pucker, coating the surface of it with pounds of slick. After getting Sam nice and wet, he coats his fingers in the stuff, and presses the tip of his first digit into Sam.

 

Sam doesn't hiss, but his legs tense up. It's been way too fucking long, and it burns like he's a virgin. For a moment, he despairs that he won't ever be able to fit Dean inside him, but Dean starts rubbing at his thighs again, cooing and shushing him, even though he wasn't speaking.

 

"Hurts, right?" Dean asks quietly. "Just relax, I'll keep it slow."

 

In a way, this is more intimate than the actual act of sex itself. Dean's not getting anything out of it, and honestly, Sam isn't yet, either. Dean is going so fucking slow, barely sinking a single knuckle in, adding more lube so fucking often that Sam suspects the bed will be soaked with it. He has to trust Dean, and he does, and it's gonna take a damn while. They never show this part in the videos online.

 

He keeps his eyes closed and lets his thoughts wander. Dean pushes a little deeper, and his rim is pretty much numb, but the new area starts burning. He's used to it now, though, so it doesn't bother him. Plus, it'll get replaced by a feeling much, much, better.

 

He doesn't know how long they stay like that, completely silent, Dean's breaths puffing out in the room. He's a little stuffy. Sam finds it endearing. When Dean slips his entire first finger in, Sam shivers, and it doesn't burn but it doesn't feel good, either.

 

Dean works him with just one until he's loose enough that it slips in and out easily. So much time has passed already, but Dean jerks him off regularly to keep him hard. Sam has an active mind, though, and just the thoughts of what Dean's doing and what Dean will do keep the blood rushing south.

 

"Gonna add another," Dean murmurs, and then Sam feels it nudging at his entrance, slippery, and this time, he's ready. It doesn't burn. Once Dean gets moving a little bit faster, it actually feels pretty good. He must be getting closer and closer to Sam's sweet spot. 

 

Dean uses one hand to hold Sam's balls, rolling them in his palm and Sam's heart skips a beat. His hips buck up and he groans, and Dean uses that moment to slip his second finger all the way in.

 

Sam jolts. His fingers are right there, shit. "Crook them up," he pants, and Dean obliges, and Sam screams, his back arching off the bed. His cock drips precome onto his stomach.

 

"Woah," Dean says, then laughs. "I know where Sammy's happy button is."

 

"Just... keep going," Sam grits out, and if Dean doesn't keep fingering him right, he's gonna fucking kill him.

 

Dean works him open faster, crooking his fingers up every once in awhile until Sam begs him to stop, holding himself off from coming. Dean's third finger slides in without a hitch, and Sam rolls his hips, fucking himself down onto Dean's hand.

 

"You're so fuckin' hot, you're so beautiful, something about you, Sammy," Dean gasps, like worship, but he slips his hand out of Sam and Sam whimpers at the loss, jerking himself hard and rough.

 

Sam hears the crinkle of the condom wrapper being opened. He listens to Dean roll it onto his dick, and Sam trembles with excitement. He's wanted for so long. And here he is. Here they are.

 

Then Dean is in his field of vision, smiling down at him, his hand over Sam's. He pulls Sam's hand away from his cock. "Slow down, cowboy," he says, "I'm gonna do it, okay? I'm gonna push in."

 

Sam's heart explodes in his chest. He nods his head, over and over. "Yeah. Yeah," he says, hooking his legs around Dean's waist, his ankles resting above Dean's ass. Dean uses his hand to guide the head of his dick to Sam's entrance, and Sam feels it nudge against him. His breath shudders, but a single, soft kiss from Dean is all it takes for him to calm down, and then Dean is inside of him.

 

He's a lot bigger than three fingers, so Dean only sinks part way in before stopping, giving Sam time to adjust. He kisses Sam, distracting him, petting Sam's hair. He gives slow, shallow thrusts, and Sam hisses at a particularly deep one.

 

"Shit sorry," Dean apologizes, "you just feel so good, Sammy."

 

"A little deeper," Sam says, reaching up to grip at Dean's back. "Just take it slow."

 

"Promise." Dean pushes in, and Sam relaxes all of his muscles, letting his brother in.

 

He's, uh, he's sort of getting off on that fact that it's big brother doing all of this, big brother taking care of him. He wonders what Tom's face would look like if he knew. 

 

His cock drips.

 

Dean pushes all the way in, slowly, slowly, slowly, until his balls are nudging against Sam's ass, and he's panting like a dog, staring down at Sam.

 

Sam digs his nails into Dean's back, pressing his forehead against Dean's. "Move," he orders, and Dean does. 

 

He slips all the way out and then all the way back in, agonizingly slowly, and he adjusts his angle slightly, speeding up his pace.

 

It feels better than Sam remembered. He loves the feeling of fullness, of heat deep inside him, of Dean's scent all around him, Dean's lips on his. Dean pushes a little rougher, and Sam nods, encouraging him on, and the next time Dean fucks into him, it's fucking perfect, hitting his prostate dead on.

 

Sam moans, low and long, his mouth falling open. "Oh god... right there, Dean. Please, more. More. More." His voice goes high and reedy as he begs shamelessly, his body rocking up to meet Dean's thrusts.

 

Dean kisses him roughly, groaning into his mouth. He rolls his hips right into Sam, the bed squeaking, and Sam cries out in time with his thrusts. Dean gets a little bolder each time, a little rougher, until Sam is being pushed up the bed in time with Dean fucking into him, and the skin-on-skin, loud, messy slap of it is music to Sam's ears. It's the sound of Dean making love to him.

 

Dean starts jerking him slowly, bunching up the skin under the head in the most mind-numbing way, spreading warmth and pins and needles throughout Sam's body.

 

"Fuck, Dean, faster, more, please," Sam chants, his voice a complete wreck, and Dean is more than happy to oblige, latching his teeth onto Sam's neck as he loses control of his hips, fucking into Sam with abandon, deep and unforgiving and so fucking loud. 

 

That's all it takes to undo Sam. Dean is hitting the perfect spot, and he's so warm, and he's touching Sam, and Sam cries, his body tensing up before relaxing bonelessly as he comes. 

 

"Oh, Sammy," Dean whispers, and rests his forehead on Sam’s shoulder as his hips start to tremble and lose their rhythm. He snaps his body hard against Sam three more times, his hip bone bruising Sam's ass before he jerks to a stop, fully seated in Sam, his cock pulsing deep inside his hole as he comes into the condom.

 

Dean flops onto him. They're both breathing like they've climbed a mountain or killed a Wendigo or something, and Sam's entire body is pliant and happy, buzzing with a pleasant afterglow.

 

They lay like that for a couple of minutes until Dean is soft, Sam's hole clenching all around him. Dean pulls out slowly, and Sam hisses at the loss. Dean gets up to toss the condom into the trash. He's back a moment later with a washcloth, wiping Sam down. 

 

Sam is too blissed out to move. He doesn't have the energy to open his eyes. His hole aches, still open, still lube-messy, clenching around nothing. Dean touches him briefly there before snuggling up behind Sam, moving Sam around like he's a doll, pushing him onto his side and moving his arms this way and that.

  
Sam falls asleep warm and comfortable, his brain turned to mush, pain-free, hoping to god that they can do it all over again in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOOHOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! [shoots a confetti canon] Finally!!!!!!!! :D


	16. XVI. Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gives Sam some tattoos. He has a surprise for Sam. Sam is happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this at the same time I finished my Sam Winchester bigbang, and a springfling project. My writing muse is dead, may it rest in peace.

Sam wakes up feeling a little sex-hungover. They're both sleeping in a cold, sticky mess, which, okay, was kinda hot last night, but now it's just gross. His ass is throbbing, but he likes it. It's a reminder.

 

His body flushes warm, all the way down to his toes. He imagines his brain is like an old woman, running around and yelling about how scandalous it is. How dirty.

 

And, yeah, maybe it is, but he doesn't think about it like that. He just remembers Dean whispering little nothings into his ear, Dean squeezing him, petting him, Dean making him feel good. Dean being Dean. Nothing scandalous.

 

He shivers. He can clearly imagine growing old with Dean and having sex all the time. Boring sex. Kitchen sex. Wall sex. Oh god... Impala sex. Yes. He should make a list, write dates on the calendar, plan things... would toys be good? He had a dildo once, doesn't anymore. Hmm.

 

Dean punches Sam's ankle with his heel. "Turn your god damn brain off, it's eight in the morning," he groans into the pillow, and Sam laughs. He's full to bursting with good feelings and his brain has gone happy-puppy erratic, in that tail-wagging, paw-skittering, goofy way.

 

He crawls over to Dean and flops down across his bare back, burying his nose in Dean's hair and inhaling. Dean makes a noise of complaint under him, but Sam ignores him. He traces Dean's freckles, comparing them to his own moles. He measures Dean's upper arm, curling his fingers around it. Still a lot bigger than Sam's, even though Sam's made serious progress. 

 

He gets caught with his pants down, literally and metaphorically. One moment, he's staring at constellations made out of pigment, and the next, he's being thrown down onto the mattress, the breath forced out of his lungs.

 

Dean climbs on top of him in a leisurely manner. He reminds Sam of a panda. He goes about kissing Sam in a gentle, lazy way, no intention, no implication. Just enjoying Sam.

 

It makes Sam's inner puppy bark and roll around.

 

Sam cups Dean's face and kisses back with as much energy as possible, considering they've both just woken up. Usually, Dean hates mornings, but Sam thinks he's found a surefire way to make them tolerable for his brother. He doesn't even give a fuck about morning breath. Dean's mouth is too good. He wants to get used to this with every fiber of his being.

 

He feels as though he's sinking into Dean, joining with him, sharing hearts and heat and souls. He kisses with instinct, with eyes shut, moving his lips as easily as breathing. The scent and feel of Dean is all around him, and it's all he's ever wanted.

 

Dean whines, pushing Sam's face away with his palm. Sam blinks, licking up the spit on his face. Dean's hand is still mushing his cheek.

 

"Sam," Dean says, and his voice is smiling and sleep-gravelly. Sam fucking loves it. He wants to hear it every morning, and god, he's going to get all these little wishes. It's a strange thought. He has Dean. "I have'ta work."

 

"Bring me with you," Sam pants into Dean's mouth, narrowing his eyes and grinning down at his brother. "Ink me up, Dean, I wanna match."

 

Dean's eyes go dark. He nods. Sam's heart skips a beat.

 

And several more when Dean picks him up and dumps him onto the floor, disappearing into the bathroom before Sam can retaliate.

 

He sits on the bedroom floor for several more minutes, just laughing, almost manic. The poor puppy in his head has overloaded on happiness. 

 

By the time he gets his shit together, Dean is heckling him to get moving, alternating between trying to give him noogies and peppered kisses on the temple. He can see the strange battle fighting behind Dean's eyes--it's like he wants to tease and pester Sam, stuck in older-brother mode, but another part of him has gone all sappy and lovey-dovey, and the two halves are conflicting. 

 

Sam's good with that. He wants both. He wants the Dean he's always had, and also the loving husband that he knows is somewhere inside of Dean. He wants the whole damn gay package.

 

\--

 

The day feels new and strange to both of them, Sam can tell. Like the entire world has changed overnight around them, added colors they hadn't noticed before. Sam can't stay away from Dean. He scoots across the bench until he's in the center of the car, pressed up against Dean's body.

 

"Tryin' to drive," Dean grumbles, but one of his arms slips around Sam's waist.

 

Dean has to work with a client before he can give Sam any tattoos. The dude, who was trying to finish a badass sleeve, was his last customer so he plops Sam in the chair, and they talk shop, ideas, cost, the usual. Dean gives him an incest lifemate discount. 

 

"All the same as yours," Sam says, cutting Dean off. "The names and birthdates on my arm, the luggage tag, too. And something on my back."

 

"You sure?" Dean asks. "I mean, they're permanent-"

 

"You knew that when you got yours," Sam counters. "Ink me up, big brother."

 

Dean swallows, discretely adjusting himself. 

 

It takes the whole day, with hour-long breaks and copious snacks, but Sam doesn't mind. He likes the atmosphere of the shop, likes the other people who come in, likes Roy and Anna. They start with the simple luggage tag, and Dean permanently etches his own name into Sam's forearm.

 

He loves it.

 

The initials come next. Dean's tongue sticks out between his teeth as he emboldens the text, filling in serifs and adding embellishments. 

 

It's the back tattoo that takes the most time. The skull and text on Dean's back is massive, and intricately shaded. Took him all day after that meeting with Dr. Walton gave him wisdom he couldn't get out of his head. To hell and back. Proud of his heritage, proud of Sam for coming through after going through another kind of hell.

 

Sam commemorates his own experiences with a large, anatomical heart across his back. He thinks it's a nice match to Dean's skull, like Sam's the head and Dean's the heart, even if Dean didn't originally intend for it to be like that. He gets the same text: to hell and back. When they're finished, Sam's dizzy and his knee hurts and his entire body burns, but it's totally worth it to see the look in Dean's eyes.

 

Dean touches him on his good shoulder. "You ready to go?" he asks, keeping his voice low, and Sam nods. He leans on Dean as they leave, Dean stocking up on lotion before they go.

 

Sam almost falls asleep in the car, but Dean nudges him awake and they head inside. Sam listens to his crutches click, but his tired brain soon tunes the noise out. He's only using one right now. One of his forearms can't be slipped into a crutch. He's all pink skin and fresh, stark tattoos. Dean almost didn't finish, worried it was too much at once. Sam made him continue.

 

He's questioning that decision a little, but definitely not the tattoos. He lets Dean lead him to bed, and he doesn't have energy for more than a few kisses before he's curling into Dean's side, drifting off to sleep with Dean carefully caressing him.

 

\---

 

For the first time since he's started working at Sam Pub, his schedule conflicts with Dean's. If they wanna keep the apartment, Dean has to put in more hours. He has two clients today, both with huge, colorful projects. He'll be there all day, so Sam has to take the bus. 

 

It's only one stop, and he knows exactly how it will happen, but he can't help but be nervous about any kind of change in routine. He's gotten kind of used to a repetitive normalcy. _ It's probably a good thing to experience something new, _ he tells himself. He used to get a thrill out of discovering new creatures, new places. He doesn't want to become sedentary.

 

He checks his watch. Work starts in thirty minutes. The bus will arrive just down the block in ten. 

 

Dean's not even here to tell him there's no reason to freak out. Dean's not here to touch his shoulder or coax a nervous kiss out of him. Dean's been at work for hours and will be at work for hours more.

 

Great. 

 

Sam slips his coat on with care, keeping in mind that his tattoos are still sensitive and reddened. He grabs his crutches and keys and stops in front of the door, staring at it.

 

He grumbles at himself, curling his fists as he steels himself. He pushes through the door and goes on his way.

 

The bus is on time. He gets on with three or four other people, and the bus is already crowded. He accidentally bumps into someone with his crutches and they glare at him. He ducks his head and slithers past bodies, stumbling forward when the bus jerks and speeds up without warning. 

 

He falls into a person and rights himself, face burning. 

 

"Sorry," he mumbles, looking up at the sour face of the old woman he'd been pushed against. He finds a pole to grab and stays standing. All the seats are full. He supposes he could ask for one, but he'd only get more glares in return. It's only a five minute ride, anyway. His knee should be fine.

 

It's five minutes of fucking hell. He's pressed up against five different strangers, and he keeps getting judgemental looks from other passengers. It's a sardine can of death, and every time they round a corner at high speed, Sam closes his eyes and grips the pole tighter, going through breathing exercises.

 

Only a few people get off at his stop, so he has to weave back through the crowd. He keeps his gaze to the floor and holds his crutches to his chest, limping down the stairs and onto the pavement. The bus door squeaks and hisses shut behind him, and the bus shudders and zooms off behind him. 

 

\---

 

Work is uneventful. He keeps thinking about Dean. This is the longest they've been apart for months. It's not even that much time. On some hunts, they might get separated for the whole day, interviewing witnesses or working separate leads. They'd come home too exhausted to catch up, and just pass out.

 

Still, even then, never more than a day. Any separation longer than that meant something was wrong. Sam has been breathing Dean's air all his life.

 

Tom taps him on the shoulder as he's cleaning up his station and folding up towels. He turns, wiping his hands. Tom's smiling down at him, rocking back and forth on his heels. 

 

"Hi, Tom," he says.

 

"How're things, Sam-I-Am?" Tom asks.

 

Sam shrugs. "Just about to leave," he says, "I haven't seen Dean all day and he's gonna be here soon."

 

"You give him my regards," Tom says, still smiling. "Sam, I was wondering... would you like to have some drinks with me on Friday? Not a work thing. We could even go somewhere different, I know all the best breweries in town."

 

Sam's smile wavers in confusion. "We both work late on Friday," he says.

 

Tom frowns. "No, your brother called in a notice awhile back. You're off for two weeks. I thought we could go someplace nice."

 

Sam's heart rabbits around in his chest. "Two weeks...?" he echoes, trailing off.

 

Tom continues, undisturbed. "There's a place on Third I think you would just love, Sam."

 

Sam blinks. "What? Tom... I'm sorry. No. I can't." He wants to disappear, or melt through the walls, or teleport to anywhere that isn't here. Dean had been right about Tom and Sam had been so oblivious.

 

Tom's smile refuses to dim. "It wouldn't be proper anyway, would it? I am your boss. I understand, Sam. Who knows where we'll be later in life, though, eh?" Tom laughs, nudging Sam in the side.

 

_ Not with you _ , Sam thinks, then feels a spike of guilt. He looks down at his watch. "I've got to go," he says, wincing. He turns without waiting to hear what Tom has to say, making it out to the curb in record time. Crap.

 

The Impala pulls up just as Sam stops, and he frowns down at Dean through the passenger window. He gets in, setting his crutches in the footwell next to him. Dean's got the radio on low. The moment Sam tugs his door shut, Dean pulls away from the curb with the grace and ease that is the exact opposite of the bus from hell. Sam feels less anxious already.

 

"Two weeks?" he asks quietly.

 

Dean nods his head. "Ah," he says, stopping at a red light. Sam watches his profile, bathed in vibrant light, making the freckles on his cheeks stand out in stark relief.

 

"What is that about?" Sam asks, keeping his voice measured. He's had a long day, goddammit, and he kind of wants to blow up or freak out about this, but Dean probably has an excuse. He trusts in Dean.

 

Dean shrugs. He reaches into his jacket pocket as they start to move, and hands two slim pieces of paper over to Sam.

 

Sam looks down at them. They're tickets.

 

To Disneyland.

 

"Dean...?" Sam questions, his throat filling up. "Dean, what is this?"

 

Dean sneaks a look over at him, his face full of young hope, childish excitement. "Road trip?" Dean asks, and Sam laughs.

 

"Yeah," Sam says, "let's go on a road trip."

 

\---

 

Turns out, Sam isn't as exhausted as he'd thought. He has enough energy for a little fun before bed. Dean had jerked him off, and the feeling of Dean's familiar, calloused palm around his hot length was enough to make him spill over Dean's fist almost immediately. 

 

Sam wants to thank Dean. He wants to go above and beyond.

 

He licks the come off of Dean's hand and Dean swears, ducking his head. Sam takes advantage of the moment of weakness and flips them, slamming Dean down into the mattress. 

 

Dean's eyes widen, and his face splits into a pleased beam. "You got fuckin' strong," he says, pride saturating his tone.

 

Sam crawls down Dean's body and sits between his legs. He peels Dean's boxers off of his legs, watching Dean's cock bob up and slap against his belly.

 

"What're you gonna do?" Dean asks, his voice low and dark.

 

"Just shut up," Sam murmurs, and shit, he's got a bit of performance anxiety. He shuffles backward, making himself comfortable. He leans forward. He takes hold of the base of Dean's cock and lowers his mouth down around the crown, sucking lightly on it.

 

"Oh, holy fuck," Dean groans. "Sam, yeah, baby, more."

 

Sam shivers with pleasure at the pet name. He sinks down lower, inch by inch, relaxing his throat. It's been a long time since he's done this, but he still remembers how to deepthroat.

 

_ Like riding a bike _ , he thinks, his mental voice smug as the tip of Dean's cock hits the back of his throat.

 

Dean's propped up on his elbows, watching him. His mouth is slack. Sam looks up at Dean from under his eyelashes, blinking in what he hopes is a wanton way.

 

"How the fuck do you know how to do that?" Dean pants, his hips pushing up. Sam puts a hand on Dean's waist to hold him down.

 

He pulls out all the stops, uses all the tricks. He hums around Dean's length and licks broad stripes up and down the sensitive underside, giving kitten licks to Dean's head, dipping his tongue into the slit. He sinks all the way down on Dean's cock, his nose brushing at Dean's wiry hairs, before pulling up and sinking right back down, swirling his tongue to give Dean the most stimulation.

 

Dean tugs on his hair but Sam doesn't let up.

 

"Gonna come, Sammy," Dean grits out, and Sam just hums some more, rising up only slightly to suckle on the head of Dean's cock. 

 

The overstimulation puts Dean over the edge and he grunts, spilling into Sam's mouth. Sam laps up the come, swallowing it down. Dean falls down from his elbows and moans.

 

Sam squeezes Dean from base to tip, licking up the last few drops of come that leak out of his softening dick. He pulls up, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He pets Dean's hip once before crawling up his body and tucking himself into Dean's side.

 

Dean wraps an arm around him. "Gonna kill me, Sammy," he mutters, yawning.

 

Sam lays an arm over Dean's warm stomach, feeling his brother breathe. "Tom asked me out today."

 

Dean's stomach muscles contract. Dean clears his throat. "What'd you say?"

 

Sam scoffs. "I turned him down, idiot."

 

Dean relaxes. "Is that gonna make things awkward?"

 

Sam shrugs. "Well, not for two weeks, at least," he says, starting to smile, "'cause I'm going to Disneyland."

 

Dean huffs. His arm tightens around Sam's waist. "Damn straight," he growls, his fingers dancing over Sam's skin. 

 

"I have some other plans, too, but I can't tell you what they are," Dean says after a few minutes of comfortable silence, his words slurred with sleep. 

 

Sam can't help but wiggle against Dean's side, and Dean laughs. "I love surprises," he says. "This freaked me out at first, but it's awesome. Thank you, Dean."

 

"Don't have to say that to me," Dean says. "And 'course it freaked you out, you big, overthinky nerd. But it'll be amazing, I promise. Designed specifically for beanpole little brothers."

 

"I won't fit into that category much longer," Sam warns, "and when I don't, I'll kick your ass."

 

"Yeah, sure," Dean mocks. "I think you meant to say 'if'."

 

Sam pinches Dean's nipple and Dean squeaks. "Jerk," Sam huffs.

 

Dean gets a finger up Sam's nostril through skillful manouevering. "Bitch."

 

\---

 

Sam gets out of bed before the sun's even thought about rising, being careful not to wake Dean. He looks for suitcases for a few minutes before freezing in the hallway. They don't own a single suitcase. They've just got fuckloads of duffel bags and backpacks. 

 

He's too well adjusted. Going on a road trip will probably do him some good, help him get back to his roots or whatever. Plus, if Dean put in all those extra hours to save up for this trip, he knows it's gonna be good. When Dean puts his mind to something, plans it with excruciating care, it's impossible for it not to be wonderful. Sam's almost certain he's gonna end up shedding a few tears. Or a lot. 

 

There are a lot of potential stops between Michigan and California.

 

He grabs all of their duffel bags from the closet and starts filling them with clothes, toothbrushes, toothpaste, all the bare necessities. He packs them in the trunk. He puts his pillow on the passenger seat. He makes a couple of sandwiches and fills a cooler up with beer, putting those in the backseat.

 

After all of that, he stands in the middle of the living room, frowning. He feels like they should bring more things, but they've already got more packed than they had when they came to town for that cursed hunt. And double that left in the apartment.

 

He goes back to his room and digs through his closet where his personal belongings have added up. He takes out his camera and his swim trunks and adds them to a duffel bag. 

 

He's coming back in through the front door when Dean steps out of their bathroom, hair still sleep-ruffled, but he's in a new pair of clothes. "Someone robbed us in the middle of the night," he says, "and took all our toothbrushes."

 

"I already packed them, sorry," Sam says. "I couldn't wait. I wanted it to be all ready when you woke up."

 

"Always so anal," Dean mutters, disappearing back into the bathroom to gargle some mouthwash. He popped back out, looking a little bit more awake. "Breakfast, then we leave," he tells Sam, "white-chocolate-chocolate-chip pancakes'll be ready in ten."

 

"I've got the best boyfriend," Sam says, before he can censor himself. It's a weird word on his lips, a strange thing to associate with Dean, but it rings true. Brother-boyfriend. Brother-boyfriend-bestfriend-soulmate seems more accurate, but that's a mouthful.

 

Dean looks up at him for a moment, eyes slowly widening before he snaps back to normal, tossing Sam a cheesy smile. "Nah, sorry, dude, I think my dude's got that title covered."

 

"Sorry,  _ dude, dude dude dude _ ," Sam teases, dropping his voice to sound like Dean's.

 

Dean glowers. "Do you want pancakes or not?"

 

Sam rolls his eyes. "I'll make 'em if you don't."

 

"Yeah, but they wouldn't be as good."

 

"Fine. Sorry," Sam says, raising his hands up in a placating manner and grinning. 

 

Dean shakes his head, looking too god damn satisfied, the asshole. He whistles an Aerosmith song and gets to cooking. Sam sits at the kitchen table and watches the muscles in Dean's back move and coil. 

 

An hour later, they're back on the open road, tearing down the highway, radio blaring. Sam's got the window open and he sticks his arm out it, laughing. The wind soars through his fingers and he sings along to the music, his heart soaring as fast as the car underneath him. Dean shoots him an elated look, his face open and happy, and laughs at Sam's antics before he joins in, yowling along with the chorus. 

 

It doesn't matter if he's curled up in a familiar bed in the apartment or sitting in Baby. It doesn't matter where he is, what is mind is like, or what state his body is in. 

 

All that matters is that he's with Dean. Now more than ever he's with Dean, in so many different senses, and he's fucking happy. Whatever happiness he felt before seems like it was false, a storebrand version of the real thing. Sam has never felt like this before. He has never felt so in love.

 

Out on the open road, his hand in Dean's, he knows they will be okay.

 

Their lives will spin on, and no matter what direction they go in, Sam will be ready. They both will. 

 

He's ended several chapters of his life, but he is excited to start a new one.

  
_ End _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy fucking crap, to all of you who have stayed with me through these past few months, THANK YOU SO MUCH. I CANNOT SAY IT ENOUGH. Seriously, I never would have had the motivation to finish this without all the lovely commenters and readers who came back time after time. This fic is here because of you. <3 <3 <3 
> 
> This is NOT the full end, if you couldn't tell by this being the first piece in a 'verse. There will be more fics in Outro 'Verse, just not right away, I'm sorry :( I have a lot of other projects I need to work on, but I won't forget about Outro. I love it and my boys too much. I have so much planned :) Sorry to make you guys wait.
> 
> Thanks again. Comments are love.
> 
> <3


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